Dark Emerald by Lisa Jackson
“So he amasses an army.” Tremayne wasn’t surprised, but he was irritated just the same. His blood boiled when he considered Cavan, a young whelp, a boy who had no knowledge of war, no fear of death, one who took his wealth and station for granted. Cavan would have to learn a very painful and expensive lesson, and Tremayne would be only too glad to teach it.
Settling back in his chair, he rested a boot heel on one of the scarred benches positioned around the table.
“What else did you hear?”
“ ‘Twas on everyone’s tongue that Cavan and his soldiers will march within the fortnight. Mayhap sooner. They say the baron has a bloodlust. He wants revenge for the murder of his family.”
“So he really believes he be Gilmore’s issue—the infant heir that was never found.”
“Aye. He is certain of it, as Lord Innis, upon his deathbed, said it to be true.”
“And he wants his vengeance, when ‘twas Gilmore’s soldiers who defiled my mother.” Tremayne turned his thoughts away from that painful time, when his own mother had lost a mind that was fragile to begin with. “Then we must counter.” Tremayne tried to rein in his temper, for Cavan’s intent to wage war against Twyll was as infuriating as the outlaw’s attempts to humiliate him. Tenting his hands beneath his chin, he touched his fingertips lightly to his lips and mentally counted to ten. When that didn’t work, he went on to twenty. Finally, deciding he could run numbers in his head forever, he forced his voice to hold a thread of patience he didn’t feel. “Know you anything else?”
“Nay. I feared I was about to be found out and made haste to return.”
“We know enough, I suppose.” He focused on Regan. “Call up all our soldiers. Any man of age will be expected to defend Twyll. See that the stores are filled and that the armorer has enough weapons to fend off a siege.”
“Should we not attack first?” Regan asked.
“ ‘Tis too late.” Tremayne drummed his fingers on the table and motioned to the spy.
Footsteps accompanied by shouts rang through the tower.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
“M’lord?” Percival’s voice pierced the thick oak of the door. “ ‘Tis Sir James. He’s returned!”
Tremayne was on his feet in a second, and Regan threw the bolt. The door swung open and James, his face bruised and scratched, his clothes tattered, dirty rags, stood with the old man and a sentry whose fist was raised to beat against the door again.
From the corner of his eye Tremayne saw Red gulp. His ruddy complexion darkened a hue. “Well, well, well,” Tremayne said. “Sir James. How is it that you lost your horse?”
“I was attacked.” James lifted his chin a fraction and had the impudence to stare at Tremayne through an eye that was swollen near shut.
“By Cavan’s men?” Tremayne asked.
“No, m’lord.” James’s gaze shifted away for a second. “ ‘Tis not proud to admit it I am, but I was ambushed by the outlaw. The rogue who managed to take your steed.” His lips curled in disgust.
For a second Tremayne didn’t move. His fingers itched to strangle the upstart, but he couldn’t, not when there was information to be gleaned. “My brother did this to you?”
“Aye. He and the white-haired one.”
“Abelard?” Tremayne’s gut clenched. He’d heard this before. Though Rhys was known to ride alone, there had been rumors about Abelard, a knight loyal to Merwynn and Twyll until once, after a night of too much ale, Tremayne had separated him from a finger. Some said that ‘twas Abelard who saved Rhys’s life and had taught him the ways of being a thief. There had been times when they had been rumored to have been spotted together, but none that had proved true. Another thought struck him, and he asked, “What about the woman?” His hand moved in a tight circle in the air near his head as he tried to recall. “Did not Sir Edwin say that the last time he chased Rhys, the bastard had been with a woman—embracing her, I believe.”
“There was no woman with them.”
“And they spoke not of her?”
“Nay.” James was certain.
“Odd.” For years Rhys had been a loner—or so Tremayne had been led to believe—but not only a woman without a name but also Abelard had been linked with him. Closely. ‘Twas trouble. Thick and deep.
“Why were you spared?” he asked again, just to see if James strayed from his story.
“They would’ve kilt me, too, but I managed to escape.”
“What did they want from you?”
“My purse.”
“Is that all?”
“Nay. They were seeking information about Cavan of Marwood.”
“And they thought you would have it?” Tremayne’s suspicious eyes bored into the spy. Was it his imagination or did the man seem to be enjoying this—as if it were part of an intricate game of chess?
“Aye. I had just parted from Red. Was circling Marwood, when I was set upon. They knew that I had visited Cavan’s keep before.”
“How?” Tremayne demanded. “How did they know?”
James thought for a second, studied the floor. “The only way is if they had someone on the inside.”
“At Marwood?”
“Nay,” James said in a serious voice. “The spy would have to come from here. In Twyll.”
A sensation cold as death stole up Tremayne’s spine. How many times had he heard the scrape of boot heels chasing after him when no one was there? How often had he felt the heat of someone’s gaze, only to find no one watching him?
But all those puzzling occurrences were about to end. Finally the fates had not smiled on Rhys. The outlaw had tripped himself up at last. Or had he? Mayhap Sir James was a traitor and this a well-planned trap. “So you know where the outlaw’s lair be?”
“Nay,” James said and rubbed his wrists, where the skin had turned an ugly greenish hue.
“You were not taken there?”
He shook his head.
Tremayne, his interest piqued, folded his arms over his chest. “Tell me what you know of the outlaw’s lair.”
James hesitated but a moment. “What price would you pay?”
So the cocky soldier had the nerve to barter with him. Good. Tremayne leaned down until his face was nearly touching that of the spy. “If you tell the truth, Sir James, you will live … and be paid well for your trouble.” Tremayne gestured to the bruises and cuts upon James’s body. “But if you lie … you’ll be hung until you be half dead, then drawn and quartered, for ‘twill be treason.”
The man didn’t flinch. “ ‘Tis the truth I speak,” he said, as if he believed it to the very depths of his soul. “I was taken to a quarry, far from their camp.”
“Yet you escaped.”
“Aye, when they slept. The older one, on his shift to stand guard, nodded off and I slipped my bonds.”
Tremayne nodded. “And their camp?”
“As I said, I know nothing.”
“What of Broodmore? Could the outlaw hide there?”
“ ‘Tis the castle of the damned,” Red whispered and crossed himself with his stained fingers. Regan snorted his disbelief.
Tremayne raised a hand, cutting off any further comment. “What say you?” he asked James.
A haughty eyebrow lifted over James’s blackened eye. “As Our Father judges me, no one would stay in Broodmore. Not even the bastard.”
Tremayne felt a lie in the air. He snapped his fingers. “We shall see. I will send my men, but you, Sir James, will wait here, under guard.”
James stiffened. “You trust me not?”
Tremayne paused. “My trust must be earned.” Motioning to Regan, he strode to the door. “Lock him up and assemble the rest of the men. We ride to Broodmore at dawn.” For the first time in a long while, Tremayne smiled. Finally he sensed that he had a chance at getting even with the outlaw.
“For the love of the Virgin Mother, girl, what d’ya think ye be doin’?” Rosie’s voice, a pitch higher in her excitement, echoed through the small space that had once bee
Tara scrambled quickly to her feet. She’d escaped Rosie’s watchful eye and managed to draw a small rune for her protection in a spot of soil she’d exposed. Though she stepped over her scratchings, Rosie wasn’t fooled. Beneath the edge of her scarf, Rosie’s eyebrows pulled into a tight knot of frustration.
“Don’t ye know that all this is the very work of Satan?” She flapped a fleshy arm at Tara’s work as she strode across the weeds and grass.
“Nay, ‘tis only to the Great Mother that I pray, as well as to God.”
“ ‘Tis a sin, I tell ye! Blasphemy. I should be rinsin’ yer mouth out with soap and sendin’ you to the priest for confession.” Rosie’s face was flushed with conviction, and she wagged a fat finger under Tara’s nose. “Oh, by the saints, ‘tis a sorry lot I live here with, only thieves and outlaws and no man of God to keep this flock on the right path to heaven.”
“They’re robbers,” Tara said. “Criminals. They threaten people with weapons, perhaps maim and murder them. No priest could possibly wash their sins away—”
“Shh. If a man repent his sins to a priest and God, mind ye, he has every chance of salvation. This I know because my own past ain’t so pure.” With her hefty body, she shoved Tara aside, glared down at the scratchings in the mud, and shook her head, using her boots to scrape dirt over the rune. “But what if Pigeon were to see this? Tis trouble enough that she doesn’t go to mass … oh, mercy, Lord, have I not been a fit servant?” Again she rolled her eyes toward the darkening sky and crossed herself with deft, well-practiced fingers. “ ‘Tis being punished I am.”
There was no talking to the woman when she was in one of her frenzies of piety, so Tara wisely closed her mouth.
“I only hope that this”—Rosie motioned toward the destroyed symbol in the mud—”will not anger the Father.”
“I don’t see how—”
“Oh, He’s a vengeful God, He is.” Rosie’s head nodded quickly. “He’ll take His wrath out on ye—and the rest of us here as well, mark my words. Oh, sweet Mary … mayhap it’s already happened.”
“What?” Tara didn’t like the sound of this.
“Mayhap all your black arts are the reason Rhys has not yet returned.”
“Nay—”
“Nor Abelard as well.” She sighed as if suddenly weary and played with the frayed edge of her apron. “They be late. Both. Oh, Tara-girl, I hope with all this chantin’ and callin’ up spells, ye haven’t cursed us all.” She looked around the ruined walls of Broodmore and bit one side of her lip. “If anythin’ has happened to Rhys, ‘twill be yer fault.”
Tara didn’t believe it for a minute.
“Now, come along, ‘tis time for ye to go to the chamber. I can’t … I won’t be responsible for ye if yer intent on talkin’ with the dark one. Come along.”
Tara wanted to argue but couldn’t. Not only did Rosie grab her arm in a grip that pinched her flesh but Kent, ever-present and unnerving, had been hovering in the doorway of a broken-down hut. Tara, busy with her sketch, hadn’t seen him hiding in the shadows, but now, as Rosie was hauling her into the keep, she caught a glimpse of movement. He stepped out of the burned-out shell and into the fading light of sunset.
“I’ll take her,” he offered, and Tara’s skin crawled. ‘Twas time to leave this place. And she would have no better opportunity than now, while Rhys was away. At the thought of him, her stupid heart felt a pang of regret. Aye, she would miss sleeping in his arms and looking into those damnably erotic eyes, miss his touch and rare smile, miss the dream of sometime lying naked with him. Her throat was suddenly thick, and she swallowed with difficulty. What was wrong with her? Never before had she been such a goose. And certainly not because of a man—nay, a criminal—set upon holding her hostage.
Rosie refused to give up her grip. “I’ll take her back to her room, Kent. You just sit yer skinny arse by her door and don’t let her escape.” She slid a glance at Tara. “Sorry, dearie, but I can’t trust ye, now can I? And if I lost ye, oh, Sir Rhys, he’d near to tar and feather me.”
Her anger seemed to diminish a bit as they walked through a doorway where no door hung. She shook her head and breathed loudly. “Now, listen. Fer the sake of yer soul, and the safety of all of us, you get down on yer knees tonight and pray for forgiveness. The Father … He be understanding.”
And vengeful, and wrathful, and jealous, Tara thought unkindly, but seeing the true worry in the heavy woman’s eyes, she nodded. “I will pray. For all of us.”
A bit of a smile spread across Rosie’s broad face.
“ ‘Tis good ye be, Tara. No wonder Rhys is in love with ye.”
Tara stopped short. Her heart jumped. “In love?” she repeated, stunned. “Nay, I think not.”
“Do ye now? Well, it only takes one look at the man to see his soul. Do ye not feel it?” Rosie chuckled as they rounded a corner and Pigeon, lugging a pail, nearly ran into them. Her face was white as parchment, her eyes round. Dirty water sloshed onto the floor and she flushed bright red. Tears threatened her eyes. “Oh! … Mum … sorry.”
“Be watchin’ where yer goin’,” Rosie ordered tartly. “Saints be with us. Come along,” she insisted, and Tara was forced down the hallway.
“You don’t have to treat me like a child,” Tara complained, pulling her arm out of the older woman’s strong grasp. Though she didn’t look over her shoulder, she felt Pigeon’s gaze following her as they stopped at the chamber door.
“I know, I know.” Rosie seemed suddenly contrite. “ ‘Tis worried I am about Rhys and Abelard. Never have the two of them been gone this long before, and it has me nerves strung tight as the laces of Kent’s breeches.” She smiled to herself. “An unbending one, he is.” She threw open the door and Tara’s heart dropped. Being held prisoner at Broodmore was bad enough, but being confined to this room where she’d been with Rhys was even worse.
As if reading her thoughts, the older woman patted her lightly on the shoulder. “ ‘Tis sorry I am about this, ye know, but”—she sighed—” ‘tis how it must be.”
Tara’s spine grew as stiff as if it had been pressed. Who were these people, this group of thugs who thought they could keep her locked away? The days were moving swiftly by, and she badly needed to be away, to ride to Twyll, to face Father Simon and demand the truth. “So be it,” she said without a smile and determined that this night, this very evening, she would make her escape.
And never see Rhys again. Her heart felt suddenly heavy in her chest. Poor Rosie was mistaken. What she saw in Rhys’s eyes was not love for Tara but lust for the stone that was hidden in her pocket.
“I’ll send Pigeon down with a trencher of brawn,” Rosie said and crossed herself again. “Now, as I said, ye … ye talk to the Father. Promise to practice not the dark arts and ask forgiveness.”
Tara forced a smile. “I will do what I have to,” she said and touched the bit of candle and the herbs in her pocket. Her fingers grazed the smooth surface of her ring, and she knew she would leave this night. If she set eyes upon Rhys again, she might change her mind, fool that she was. But the longer she stayed with these men, the more likely it was that someone would steal the ring—the very link to her destiny.
Lodema shivered as she sat on the edge of the pallet in her empty hut. Luna rubbed up against her arm, trying to wheedle a pet or a scratch behind the ears, but ‘twas for naught. Tonight her mistress’s thoughts were far away, to Twyll, for that was where Tara had gone.
Nearly a week had passed since she’d last seen her daughter. Not too long a time, and yet it seemed an eternity. A peddler had passed by today; humming he’d been as he’d tried to sell her spoons and thread and all manner of things she didn’t need. While he showed her his wares, he talked of trouble brewing at Marwood Castle.
Old Lord Innis had died and his son, Cavan, claiming to be the missing heir of Gil
As the timbers in her little home creaked and the fire burned low, Lodema stared into her cup of now cool water and herbs, a drink she always sipped before slipping under the covers. She picked up the candle and noticed that her hands were shaking and more spotted than they had been. When had she grown so old?
Luna folded her paws beneath her and settled against Lodema’s leg. Purring softly, the cat let her eyes close. Carefully Lodema dropped a few drips of wax into her cup. Barely daring to breathe, she saw the swirl, watched as the wax hardened into the shape that she feared.
“Nay,” she whispered, but her eyes did not deceive her. The wax, as well as the smoke the other day, were omens—dire and certain.
By the gods, Tara was in trouble—serious trouble. And there was naught she could do but pray.
For the first time in twenty years, Lodema sank to her knees. The cat, disturbed from her nap, stretched and yawned as the old woman bowed her head and fervently hoped that God was listening.
Chapter Eight
“Me mum, she sent you something to eat.” Balancing a platter of brawn and bread, Pigeon slid through the open door of Tara’s chamber. With a nervous glance cast over her shoulder, she bit her lip and nearly tripped over her own two feet. “Damn.” The platter wobbled and gravy sloshed onto her hands. She sucked in her breath and managed to set the tray on the altar. “Oh … I’m sorry. Me mum, she says I always be a fumble-de-dum.” Sniffing as if she might cry, Pigeon wiped her hands on her apron.
“Worry not.” Tara pushed herself to her feet. She had been sitting on the edge of the pallet, plotting her escape and trying desperately not to think of Rhys and how it felt to have him hold her. Curse him and rot his soul, he muddled her thoughts in a manner that made her want to scream, or kick at the floor, or punch a hole in one of these thick walls. She would not think of the way his hands held her or the warmth of his body curled so close to hers. She would not! Half the time she wanted to kiss him until her lips were bruised, the other half she wanted nothing more than to slap the arrogant smile off his face. “ ‘Tis fine,” she told the anxious girl.