Seacliff (22 page)

He kept his face impassive, waiting for Gwen’s anguish to pass. “A white patch,” she’d said after a while.

“What?”

“A white patch. I don’t know what she meant. Twice, I think, she sits up with her eyes all wide and staring, talking about a great bloody giant what wears a white patch over his eye. I had all I could do to keep her from leaping off the bed! All I could do. All… I could do.”

It was then that Griffin rose from his chair and pulled Gwen to her feet and embraced her. He held her until her sobbing was over and insisted she should get back to the house before Bradford discovered where she’d gone. He’d had Jones take her as near to Seacliff as possible in a cart, and had immediately begun a vigil that lasted all day and night until he could no longer keep his eyes open. When he slept, it was badly. When he ate, it was quickly. He let Richard see to the running of his estate, collect the rents and arrears, and take the goods to the market in Llewfanon.

And each evening toward dusk he rode with grim purpose up the road and through the village, determined not to stop until he reached the doors of Seacliff.

But on those lonely rides he would draw up abreast of the grove where Davy had discovered the body of Lam Johns. And though he was afraid of no man—and especially not of Sir Oliver Morgan and his henchmen—he was reminded of Morgan’s ruthlessness. If, as the master of Falconrest, he paid a call on the mistress of Seacliff to ask after her health, which he’d heard was frail, he might make Caitlin’s life more difficult than it was now.

So each evening he turned back at the grove and used the side roads to avoid passing through the village again. He didn’t want to set tongues wagging, tongues that could be loosened more by Morgan’s money.

Oliver Morgan already had ample reason to be furious with Griffin. Several times over the past three years James Flint and his cronies had carried messages from Morgan, offering to purchase Falconrest and all its surrounding holdings for a sum that Griffin found difficult to believe a retired major of His Majesty’s army could have amassed. He refused, more bluntly each time, and it wasn’t long before he began to hear complaints from his farmers and foundry workers about damage. The incidents were minor to be sure: fences knocked down, livestock badly injured, highwaymen swooping past cottages at night laughing maniacally and shouting obscenities, unnerving his people more than frightening them.

But this last spring, the incidents had grown worse. A fire had destroyed a newly restored barn and silo; a prime bull had been found in the field with its throat slit; a well near the foundry had been poisoned, and several men had taken seriously ill.

Lam Johns had worked for that moldy creature the village called a vicar. His family had lived on Radnor land since the time of the English King Henry VIII. The tragedy of his murder had been doubled the same day when his ailing mother, despite attempts to conceal the news from her, heard of it anyway, and was dead within forty-eight hours of her son’s hanging.

It had been, Griffin believed, murder twice over.

T
he sharp scrape of a shod hoof over a rock jolted him out of his reverie, and with infinite caution he rose from his perch above Seacliff. His joints protested their sudden call to action, and Griffin groaned to himself as he stepped backward away from the edge of the drop. Though his legs tingled, he felt steady enough. Snapping his fingers once, he saw Whitefire respond, leaving his grazing patch not far away; the stallion was at his side in a few moments. In a single leap Griffin was in the saddle, and moments later he’d left the deserted clearing behind him.

Except for the furtive sounds of someone moving through the brush, and the sounds of Whitefire thundering down the forest path, the night was quiet.

Three evenings later, having heard no further word from Gwen on Caitlin’s condition, he asked Jones to take charge of the house in his absence and he went outside. It was a clear, cool night, and a nearby stream sang as he strode toward the tall iron gates set into Falconrest’s surrounding wall. He had to walk. He was much too restless, too anxious to sit for any length of time, and he’d reach his destination too quickly if he mounted Whitefire and rode to it.

He decided to cut across the countryside first and stop at the Stag’s Head for a pint and some companionship. The villagers, though they liked him well enough and trusted him, had taken to shying away from him. Their reticence came as no surprise. He knew that Flint’s men were threatening detention if not physical harm to anyone who was too friendly with the master of Falconrest. In the beginning this had amused Griffin. He had never considered himself a dangerous man, and that Oliver Morgan believed his exaggerated reputation was proof enough the major was a fool.

After downing the pint, he would take the road to Seacliff, but this time he’d go straight to Orin Daniels. And if the farrier was well disposed to his visitor, he might be convinced to admit Griffin into the south tower. The back steps led up to Caitlin’s room.

It was a foolish notion, perhaps, but one that promised a wickedly delightful evening. He grinned broadly to himself as he closed the gates behind him and set off across the pastureland on the opposite side of the road.

With his long strides he covered the distance easily, his night vision picking out with no trouble the burrows, the stump holes, the cavities where boulders had been removed to make way for plows. He whistled. To see Caitlin was only part of the joy; to be in Morgan’s house, to creep in right under the man’s red-veined nose and visit his wife in her bedchamber… that was an irony he could not resist.

He forded a stream in a single leap.

A small herd of black-masked sheep skittered away at his approach, a few of the ewes bleating in fear though the rams refrained from challenging the stranger.

A watchdog from a cottage barked a fierce warning into the night, and Griffin was hard-pressed to resist finding it and taking it with him.

As he neared the village, he found himself on a lane that led directly to the main road. Branches formed a canopy over his head, and on the dry ground the moonlight lay in puddles that rippled when the night wind gusted down from the hills. His heels struck the ground reassuringly; his cloak flapped about his calves; his soft-brimmed hat was set at a rakish angle on his head, and his hair was worn in a braid that bounced lightly between his shoulders.

Griffin was so entranced by the evening’s promise—the image of Morgan’s face bloated with anger—that he almost missed the sound of a snapping twig off to his left. He sensed it came from a thicket of brier and laurel to his left.

Not pausing or giving any sign he had heard, he continued on. But he strained his ears through the muted night sounds for another sign that he was not alone.

Another came, this time from a hickory grove to his right. Could a single man move so quickly? No, there had to be more than one.

Nodding slightly, he pushed his cloak back as casually as possible to allow his arms free movement. He carried no weapon in his waistband, and he scolded himself for the oversight. Knowing it would not be long before he was the object of some harassment, he should have made it a habit to carry at least a stunted club. But he hadn’t, and there was no sense wasting time or energy lamenting the fact. Now he had to determine the size of the band closing in around him. Three or four, by his guess. He might still do well by himself if he confronted them boldly, driving them off and getting only a few bruises himself. But since they were probably carrying weapons, it would certainly be more prudent to take to his heels. The village was not far ahead, and he was just one hundred yards from the main road; a right turn, and he would be less than half the distance to the first village house. The Stag’s Head was the last building before the commons.

Finishing his quick mental notes, he slowed and scanned the woods on either side, hoping he would be able to see in the shadows a fallen dead branch or a loose rock he could use as a weapon. There was nothing. Only his carefully controlled breathing and the sound of boots clomping boldly on the lane behind him.

His brief smile was one-sided. There was no question they were a confident bunch. Cheeky, besides, to come right out in the open like that, without so much as a blow to stun him before the kill. He swallowed hard to keep from laughing aloud, and to remind himself he was not, after all, immortal, even though his luck had managed to keep him alive thus far.

A thud sounded: someone had jumped from the thicket to the road.

Three of them were back there now, he guessed. None of them very heavy. And they weren’t closing on him; they were maintaining their distance, walking steadily in step with him like troops behind a sergeant.

His palms itched to move.

He wondered whose idea this was, Flint’s or Morgan’s? The possibility that his pursuers might be simply highwaymen looking for a lone mark and some easy coppers had surfaced and been dismissed; bandits in this valley were virtually unknown. David Evans had developed a reputation for dealing harshly with such criminals. No, it had to be Flint’s men, perhaps with Flint himself at the head.

The skin grew taut over his shoulders, and the muscles tightened across his stomach. His heart sped up, and the muscles in his arms began an unconscious flexing, ready to power him when he needed to move quickly.

Then he slowed. As the trees thinned ahead, the shadows began to separate from the boles. Three men glided into the center of the lane and formed a barrier, their hands in front of them, clubs in their grips.

He stopped, and the footsteps behind him stopped.

They’d grown to six in number. Quite a conspiracy. He looked quickly to either side: trees to his right and a thick undergrowth of brier; a copse to his left that led to an unused field abutting the central road. The verge slanted upward for five or six feet before leveling out, but because the grass at this time of night was wet with fresh dew, it would be slippery going. Even if he could make it to the top and bolt across the open land, the three ahead of him would be able to cut him off without much effort. And there might be others waiting for him at the top. You never knew how well planned these things were.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said suddenly, and loudly, “I expect you’ll want my purse. Any time soon?”

A silence greeted his mocking question.

“No?” He took a step forward, and the trio narrowed the gap between them further by taking the same number of steps closer to Griffin. “Well, surely my rags have no value to men of your obvious gentility and refinement?” He plucked dramatically at his billowing white shirt, at his snug breeches, at his polished black belt, which he tugged again, loosening the buckle in a movement too quick to catch. “Don’t you have tongues, then?”

Someone shifted behind him. He smiled, wryly. He’d thought by their stance they were trained in great patience, waiting for him to make the first move. For once he was pleased to learn that his first impression was wrong.

He shook his head slowly, and clucked his tongue. “My friends, unless you deign to speak with me, how can I read your desires, eh?” He spread his arms wide. “I am not one of your fey Welshmen, you know. I cannot read the spirits that ride the night, not like some I could name. You’ll have to tell me what it is you’re after.”

He knew, however, they were working on his nerves, hoping by their dark clothes and masked faces to frighten him into submission. But this time they had misjudged their opponent.

He put his hands on his hips. “Gentlemen, I do not have all night. Either you discuss this with me man to man or you carry on with your bloody cowardly English ways and come at me.” A shuffling noise Sounded again from behind. “Great stupid English swine,” he said, virtually bellowing the last word. “It’s bad enough you wage war on old women and young boys, isn’t it? Now you haven’t the common courage to face me as men. You have to hide like little gels behind pretty little masks to hide your great, fat, ugly faces!”

He spat in disgust.

But his provocation worked. He spun around just as one of the attackers vented his anger with a muffled yell and rushed at him, swinging his club high over his head. There was a shout of dismayed rage, but it was too late. Griffin caught the man’s wrist and twisted it back, his other hand grasped the club easily as the wrist broke with a snap. The man screamed and fell to his knees, then rolled to his side in pain. Griff, however, had already forgotten him. With club in hand he ran at the assailant’s two companions, ramming the smooth-bored club into one’s stomach and dancing away from a blow that was aimed at his forehead.

There was no thought of running now. That had died when he’d decided to confront them.

A second blow aimed for his head missed by a hair’s breadth, and he lunged at the man before he could regain his balance. He gripped the other’s throat and forced him backward, first hooking his leg around a knee and shoving. The man sank to the ground. Before he could roll away, Griffin kicked his boot into the man’s ribs and grinned in satisfaction at the cry of pain that ripped through the mask into the night air.

Then he turned around and waited, legs spread and club held at the ready in front of him. The remaining three were already lunging in full charge, one on each of the lane’s shoulders, the third coming directly up the center. Griff watched them in the few seconds before they reached him, trying to decide which he should take first, which would give him the best advantage. He completely ignored the three men groaning at his feet; they would be out of action for the time he needed to rid himself of the other pests.

His smile was taunting, and he braced himself to lunge at the center man, trusting his own weight to knock the man backward.

He feinted, and the middle man stalled slightly. It was all Griff needed. With a yell of delight he charged, dodging under the club’s wild swing and putting his shoulder into the man’s chest. There was a cry of pain, but the man miraculously did not lose his balance; instead, he dropped his weapon and flung his arms around Griff, grappling with him and pinning his elbows momentarily to his sides. The move was enough of a surprise to widen Griffin’s eyes and make him wonder for a split second how he had gone wrong, before their feet were entangled and they fell. The attacker tried to roll with the fall, but Griffin had enough presence of mind to twist in the opposite direction and land squarely on the man’s chest, knocking the air harshly from his lungs and loosening the man’s hug just enough to allow him to wriggle free.