Sorceress (18 page)

“And who did this? Who was the man you saw riding away?”

He secured his bow and arrows, lashing them to the saddle. “Craddock, my father’s sheriff. Journeyed all the way from Agendor to do my father’s bidding.”

All the color drained from Bryanna’s face and a deep sadness settled into her features. She blinked rapidly. From the rain? Or tears? “I’m sorry,” she whispered and touched his shoulder, the first contact she’d made with him since their kiss. “I guess I just don’t understand why. Why would a man order to have his lover killed? She did him no harm.”

“ ’Twas simple enough. Half of Tarth knew my mother had won the baron’s favor, and Deverill made no secret of his illicit coupling. She was an embarrassment to his new wife, the Lady of Agendor.”

“Over jealousy?” She shook her head in disbelief.

The rage that had been with him since those days burned bright. “Aye, men have killed for less,” he whispered, trying to push aside the image that had been seared into his brain that day, the vivid picture of the one person he trusted in the world lying still, her eyes wide open, and blood everywhere. Her skin stained crimson, and the deeper, darker stain that discolored her skirt and pooled around her. He’d dropped to his knees, listened for any heartbeat, any breath, but her skin was already chilled. Dead.

He remembered hearing the mocking cry of a solitary crow sitting upon the top of the woodpile, black feathers shining in the intense summer sun.

“Her name was Ravynne.” He cleared his throat and looked down at Bryanna standing in the rain. “’Twas nary three years ago,” he said.

“But you’ve not forgotten.”

“Nay.”

“And you’ve spent those years being a burr under your father’s saddle, always reminding him.”

“Short of killing the son of a cur, what better way to punish him?”

“Kill the sheriff,” she said as easily as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “That certainly sends a message.”

Gavyn smiled coldly. “I hope so.” He glanced at the threatening sky. “I hope it’s a message that’s never forgotten.”

“You have found nothing? No trace of him?” Deverill paced angrily from one side of the room to the other while the captain of the guard laid his weapons on the thick oak table.

“Not yet.” A tall barrel-chested man with a thick beard beginning to gray, Aaron had been a soldier all of his adult life. As he yanked off his gloves and shook his head, Deverill’s eyes fell on the captain’s old injury. Half of one of his ears was missing, the result of a battle in his youth.

“It’s been nearly a week.” Deverill was vexed. How had the bastard escaped again? On Deverill’s steed, no less.

“Aye, that it has.” Aaron slapped the gloves into a waiting page’s hands, then began to peel off his chain mail, the metal suit rattling as he undressed, then handed each piece to a waiting page. Once all the heavy pieces of the chain mail were in his hands, the lad carried them on wobbly legs to the armory, where they, along with the captain’s weapons, would be inspected, repaired if necessary, and cleaned.

“By the Christ, how is that possible? Are your men imbeciles?”

“They are
your
men, Lord Deverill,” the armorer reminded him, obviously tired and hungry and not concerned about the baron’s foul mood.

Deverill wasn’t about to be put in his place by the burly captain. “I authorized you to increase the reward.”

“Aye, and we have. But no one has stepped forward claiming to have seen him. Nor the steed.” The page returned, this time with a jug and two mazers. With a nod from Deverill, the pock-faced boy poured them each a cup, then offered the first to the baron.

Deverill took a long swallow, but he barely tasted the wine. Would that he could just forget his bastard son. Would that he could act as if the boy had never been born, that Deverill had never sought comfort in Ravynne’s bed and rutted with her to the morning hours. But she, of all the women in his life, had been the one he had craved. Bedding the seamstress had been more than an act of sex; there had been power in it, a lifting of the spirit, a brief sating of an unquenchable hunger. And once the deed was accomplished, his appetite had only increased.

Ravynne had been as insatiable as he, eager and ready, her tight womanhood like warm honey as he’d thrust inside her, her mouth opening in a gasp of delight, her arms wrapped around his neck, her legs surrounding his waist as he’d taken her upon the straw mattress, or up against the wall, or upon the table where she’d mended ripped seams. Oh, what a sweet, hot slit she’d had. Unlike his wife’s barren, cold crevice, where penetrating her was difficult as sticking a knife through hard, cold butter. Even once he had finally thrust deep into her, she lay like stone beneath him. Cold as marble and not as soft. No moisture. No heat. No passion.

Not like Ravynne.

’Twas no wonder his wife had insisted he get rid of her. It certainly didn’t help matters that Ravynne was so fertile; his seed planted so easily and eagerly as to quickly take root and produce a bastard while his wife, Marden, remained childless no matter how frequent the coupling.

Deverill had no legitimate heirs. No legal issue. Perhaps that was why he felt driven to control his only known son.

And in turn Gavyn was intent on humiliating him with his wild defiance.

Aaron walked to the fire to warm the backs of his legs. “We have searched for miles, scouring forests, hills, and villages, even offending the monks at St. Michael’s Monastery near Castle Gaeaf. You will probably be hearing from the bishop.”

Deverill pinched the bridge of his nose. How could one man, his own damned son, make so much trouble? Mayhap the best thing to do was to let him disappear. So he’d made Deverill a laughingstock. So he’d stolen his horse. At least he was gone and that, Deverill hoped, would bring him some peace.

“Keep looking,” he said without any enthusiasm, “and when you find him, do not kill him. ’Twill do us no good if he is thought of as some kind of hero or martyr. He needs to be brought in front of the court.”

“Which is you.

“Aye. Gavyn needs to face me and my justice.”

The captain of the guard stared at Deverill for a second, and though there was a question in the soldier’s mind, an obvious query about justice, Aaron had the good sense to keep his mouth shut.

“Find him,” Deverill ordered. “And, as I said, bring him back alive.”

Isa’s voice was clear as the nearby hawk’s screech on this quiet night. The wind and rain of the day had stopped with nightfall, when she and Gavyn had made camp.

“So now you tell me the name of the town,” Bryanna whispered as she glanced over at Gavyn sleeping close to the fire, his hand forever wrapped in the reins of his horse. He was snoring softly, but his moans of pain had ceased. His wound was healing, and after the long day, Bryanna was starting to feel comfortable with him again.

Aye, he was a killer and a thief and a liar and the gods only knew what else, but at least she was no longer alone. Not only was he company, but she supposed as he healed he would be able to provide more and more protection.

Unless he is just biding his time before he steals away from you.
’Twas her own voice warning her this time, not Isa’s.

She snorted and drew a rune in the dirt with a dry stick.
Isa.
The old nursemaid was so often silent, but tonight the dead woman had decided to tell her to find a way of ridding herself of Gavyn, and acknowledged that she was, indeed, supposed to ride to Tarth. Just as Gavyn had said.

“Why Tarth?” Bryanna whispered, hoping Isa would answer. She was tired to the back teeth of these conversations being one-sided and at Isa’s whim.

“Oh, bother. Mad people don’t know they aren’t sane.” Angrily, she dug the stick deeper into the soft mud. For nearly a day she and Gavyn had battled the steady drip of the rain, but finally the clouds had parted, allowing silvery shafts of moonlight to filter through the branches and giving Bryanna some hope that spring would eventually arrive.

She rocked back on her heels and thought about her future. What would it be? Would she still be on this quest? Would she ever meet this child she was supposed to save? Find the jewels for the enchanted dagger . . . if that was what she was really fated to do?

Fate?

Did she even believe in it?

And what of the lover she was supposed to meet? The father of her child, wasn’t that what Isa had told her? She looked at Gavyn again and bit her lip. Was he to be her lover or the enemy? Isa had said there was danger. Even in death, the old nursemaid was still frightened for her.

Frowning, Bryanna tried to engage the dead woman again. “Why should I ride alone?” she demanded, her voice hushed so as not to wake Gavyn, though she knew that after he’d drunk the healing potion at nightfall, he would sleep for hours. “Why did you not tell me this earlier?” she whispered harshly. “What is the significance of Tarth, the home of Gavyn’s mother?” Her stick split and she tossed down the piece of dry wood that remained in her hand. “Is there another piece of the map? Where is it?” She glanced over at Gavyn again, sleeping so soundly. Her heartbeat quickened at the sight of him. His bruises, though still visible, were receding.

So rarely did he smile at her during their ride, but when he did and she caught a glimpse of the boy he’d once been, her heart had beat a little faster, her hands had gotten sweaty on the reins, and she’d felt somewhat lightheaded and giddy.

Don’t even think that way,
her own voice in her head—not Isa’s—advised.
Do not allow yourself to be attracted to him. Remember the last man you found masculine and handsome, eh? The husband of your sister! One of the reasons you left Calon.
Her cheeks warmed as she thought of her misguided interest in a man who was forbidden.
You only want what you cannot have, Bryanna, the men who are challenges and dangerous. ’Tis foolish!

Since the night when she’d first cleaned Gavyn’s wounds and bound his chest, there had been no more visions.

No more kisses that caused her blood to heat and her heart to pound so wildly.

Just a steady ride northward through villages, fields, and forest.

They had stopped in one town by a river, where Gavyn had managed to sell two stoat and three rabbit skins to a tailor. Afterward Gavyn had insisted they take shelter from the driving rain and have a hot meal and beer in a local inn while the horses were fed, watered, and groomed. He’d managed to barter the rest of his hides for a little silver, as well as a few dried pieces of meat and beans from a farmer.

Later, at the edge of the village, upon spying a woman close to Bryanna’s size, Gavyn had bought the chemise off her body. The woman, carrying a covered basket, had blushed to the roots of her dark hair and shaken her head. But her husband, a practical stonemason, had urged her to take the offered coin. In the end the wife had hurried into her small hut, where she’d managed to remove her underwear and quickly redress in her russet gown and apron. Still blushing, she’d emerged and handed the plain chemise to Bryanna.

The purchase had been awkward and embarrassing, but Gavyn had insisted he owed her the chemise, and Bryanna had not argued. Her own tunic had rubbed painfully against her skin during the hours of riding. At the first opportunity, when they were once again in the woods, she’d left Gavyn to tend to the horses while she changed. Ducking into a dark thicket, she’d undressed quickly, rain sliding down her spine and the back of her neck. She’d been forced to hang her mantle and tunic upon a branch so they wouldn’t get muddy while she slid into the soft linen chemise. Quickly she’d flung her outer clothes over her body, replacing her tunic quickly and striding back to the spot where Gavyn, upon his steed, was trying and failing to hide a smile.

“What?” she’d asked as she’d climbed upon her mare again. Had she put something on backward? Was there a smudge of mud upon her face? Was her hair sticking out wildly? “What?”

From the vantage point atop her saddled horse, she’d turned and caught a glimpse of the thicket where she’d taken cover to dress. “Oh, no,” she’d whispered, realizing that there was a definite parting of the branches, a spot where they were barer than the rest, a window into the copse. Her mouth had fallen open and she’d quickly snapped it shut. She’d turned and shot a glare up at him. On his taller horse he’d probably had an even better view of her as she’d changed. “For the love of Morrigu, did you watch me?” she asked, taking up the reins and feeling warmth steal into her cheeks. “Did you, Gavyn of Agendor, see me without my clothes?”

As if on cue, a squirrel high in the branches of an oak tree began to scold her.

Gavyn lifted his good shoulder. “I was just waiting for you.”

“Liar! Sweet Mother Mary,” she’d said, lapsing into the words of the faith in which she’d been raised. “Can I not trust you to do something as simple as avert your eyes when a lady is dressing?”

One of his eyebrows had risen, but he’d said nothing.

“There are names for men like you,” she’d told him, embarrassed to the depths of her soul as she’d considered what a sight she’d been without a stitch on. All too easily he could have viewed her breasts, even her buttocks. And when she’d bent over to adjust her hem, her back had been to him and oh, by the saints, she wouldn’t even consider
that
sight.

Feeling vulnerable and oddly stirred, Bryanna had pulled her cowl more tightly over her head and urged Alabaster through the trees toward the path. God in heaven, how had she ended up with this . . . this . . . sick spy! To further her dilemma, as she’d ridden, hearing the hoofbeats of Gavyn’s mount at her heels, she’d spied the wild wolf slinking through the trees.