Sorceress (25 page)

“Aye, Father,” she said with a forced smile as she shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny. It seemed to Bryanna that he held himself with a pride and fastidiousness that bordered on arrogance, as if he were not only the baron here, but king of all Wales.

“Lady Bryanna has ridden from Castle Calon, where her sister, Lady Morwenna, rules with her husband. As Lady Bryanna’s father, Baron Alwynn, was an ally of Lord Romney, she expected Lord Mabon would eagerly extend his hospitality. ’Tis a shame poor Romney and his wife were stricken.” She made the sign of the cross over her breast and with a quick glance at Bryanna conveyed that the younger woman should also show some piety and grief. As Bryanna made the sign of the cross, Gleda added, “Please express my condolences to Baron Romney’s family as well as everyone who lives here in the keep.” She sighed loudly.

“It is not for us to understand God’s ways,” the priest intoned.

“But I am certain both Lord Romney and his son would insist the lady be their guest.”

“Undoubtedly,” the priest said, not hiding his irritation.

Standing near to the beekeeper, Bryanna felt awkward and unwanted, almost as if she were a piece of goods that Gleda was intent on selling to the priest. She wished she could turn and depart, but then Isa’s words rang through her mind once more, reminding her to follow Gleda’s instructions.

“Please, have a seat here near the fire. You must be exhausted from your travels.” He motioned to two small benches positioned near the hearth. Sinking onto one of the stools, Bryanna felt the weariness of the day deep in her bones. She managed to smother a yawn but noticed tantalizing aromas rising from the kitchen. The scents of sizzling pork and tangy onions mingling with cloves and cinnamon wafted into the great hall, making Bryanna’s stomach rumble hungrily. Perhaps with the prospect of a warm bed, mouth-watering fare, and servants to bring her wine and warm water, it wouldn’t be so difficult to spend a night in this gloomy, inhospitable keep.

“Is it not true that Sir Mabon is returning soon? Aye, but he is sorely missed,” Gleda persisted, making her point as there was an almost imperceptible tightening of the priest’s mouth. “And isn’t Sir Mabon well acquainted with Lord Kelan of Penbrooke?” Eyeing the rafters as she rubbed her chin, she nodded confidently. “Aye, I think they were pages together at Braddock Keep and fought side by side in some battles. Yes, my sister Isa mentioned it to me on more than one occasion, and she was the nursemaid for all of Baron Alwynn’s children.”

Bryanna wanted to kick Gleda. ’Twas embarrassing. Father Patrick had already given them entrance. The priest was cornered and he knew it. He managed a thin smile, as if it had been his idea to host the lone woman from Calon all along.

He turned to the page, snapped his bejeweled fingers, and ordered, “Geoffrey! Bring Lord Mabon’s guests some wine and a platter of meat and cheese.” As the boy turned toward the kitchen, Father Patrick added, “And this time, do not sample the fare. Now”—he clapped his hands rapidly—“be quick about it.”

The page seemed to take forever to return, but finally he reappeared with a jug of wine and three mazers. Another boy carried a platter of succulent boar, venison, and salmon along with a brick of cheese and mincemeat tarts. Whatever ill had befallen the castle, the malaise hadn’t extended to the kitchens.

Bryanna ate and drank as if she hadn’t had a meal in a month. The wine was the sweetest she’d ever tasted, and each time she took a sip a page promptly refilled her mazer. She tried to maintain society, but the priest’s conversation bored her. Father Patrick kept discussing how he had all the powers of a baron, along with the blessing of the church. Feigning interest, Bryanna took another sip. Though the room spun a bit, she couldn’t help but indulge in this delicious wine after such a long drought.

Gleda argued with Father Patrick while Bryanna, more than sated, tried with all her might to stay awake. Finally, Gleda pushed her chair back and, promising to return in the morning, stood to take her leave.

“You cannot leave,” Bryanna said, her mind spinning. She had assumed the older woman would stay at the keep as well.

“Oh, I must get back to Liam,” Gleda insisted, rising from the table. “What would he do without me? Thank you for the hospitality, Father Patrick.”

“’Tis not me you should thank, but the Lord.” Father Patrick’s expression held no warmth as he nodded curtly and took his leave.

“But . . . but, ’tis late,” Bryanna argued, trying hard to make her words come out without a slur. The wine was catching up with her, making her tongue thick, her legs wobbly. How much had she drunk? No more than usual. Was she ill, then?

“All the more reason I need to get home. No telling how worried Liam will be.” Gleda’s old eyes twinkled as she adjusted her mantle. “More about the horse than his wife, I’m afraid.”

“Please, Gleda. Do not leave me here alone.” Bryanna rose but found herself clutching the table for balance. Why did the room spin so? She kept her voice low, though there was no one about. Even the guard at the door was deep in conversation with another soldier.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” the old woman said, her voice the barest of whispers. “We’ll visit your mother.”

“At her grave?” Bryanna asked, aghast. “Nay!”

“I think you two should meet.”

“But . . . she’s dead,” Bryanna said, stepping backward. Though her mind was a little muddled from the wine, she did know that Kambria wasn’t alive.

“Even so, she has something you need. You’ll need to look inside her coffin.”

“Are you mad?” Bryanna shook her head. “By the saints, Gleda, this is lunacy.”

“And it must be at night.”

“What? You can’t be serious,” Bryanna said on a gasp.

But the old woman’s face was set. Determined. “You can use the moonlight as your guide.”

“Nay, Gleda, I’m
not
about to go digging up coffins.” Panic stormed through Bryanna. This was beyond lunacy. The woman had truly gone round the bend.

“And be wary of the dark warrior.”

“
What
dark warrior?”

“The one who plans to do you harm, of course.”

“Are you daft?” Though she was whispering, the words seemed to ricochet through the keep. “ ’Tis nothing more than nonsense you speak of.”

“Shh!” Gleda glanced over her shoulder. “I can say no more.” She touched Bryanna’s arm, a consoling gesture. “Go up to bed. Sleep. You look exhausted, and we have much to do on the morrow.”

“But—” Before Bryanna could protest further, Gleda was out the door, only a cold gust of wind left in her wake.

“Dear God,” Bryanna whispered, leaning against the wall as a sallow-skinned woman carrying towels and a bucket of water appeared, almost as if she’d been standing on the other side of the staircase, listening to their conversation. ’Twas not right, this swirling storm in her head.

“M’lady,” the serving woman said, “I’m Hettie and I’ll be showin’ ye to yer room now.”

Great
, Bryanna thought, annoyed with Gleda for leaving her. A shiver slithered down her spine like a sleek snake. What did that cryptic comment about meeting her mother mean? Was Kambria a ghost? Could a witch rise from the dead? Or was it all a lie?

Dear God in heaven, what had she gotten herself into?

“Drat and dog fleas,” she muttered.

“Pardon?” Hettie asked, and Bryanna shook her head.

“ ’Tis nothing,” she said, thinking she must’ve misheard Gleda. The wine . . . that was it. Surely there had been no suggestion of digging through a paupers’ cemetery. Nay! She pushed the horrid thoughts of decomposing bodies, pits looming in the damp, dank earth, and vermin crawling through deep, dark places out of her mind, at least for the moment.

She had to clear her head of this nonsense.

It wasn’t easy.

More than a little tipsy, Bryanna followed the dour-faced Hettie up three flights of stairs that seemed to shift a little as she climbed them to the guest chamber. The cold, dark room on the third floor was furnished with a large bed draped with crimson silk, a stand for a basin, a bench, and a folded wooden screen to be used for privacy while dressing. Her head spinning, Bryanna nearly stumbled into the room, only righting herself by grabbing hold of a bedpost.

Hettie’s lips had tightened in disapproval. “The latrine is that way, around the corner,” she’d said, pointing down a dim hallway away from the main stairs. Without so much as cracking a smile, Hettie lit the fire and a candle, then pointed to the stack of extra wood near the grate.

Only after the dour maid had departed did Bryanna slip out of her clothes, blow out the candle, and slide between the cold linen sheets of the canopied bed, which seemed to spin every time she closed her eyes. The fire cracked, hissed and popped, sparks floating upward, flames casting a dancing golden light upon stone walls that hadn’t been whitewashed in decades. The sheets felt rough against her bare skin and the feathers of the mattress probably hadn’t been fluffed or cleaned in months, but Bryanna was too tired to care. She’d been awake for a day and a half, and now her head felt heavy.

She closed her eyes and wondered how many nights she could stand residing in this decrepit castle. Yes, she had received food, drink, and forced hospitality. Aye, there were soldiers and battlements and gates that locked, so being here insured her some kind of protection. But she had no plan to idle. If she was to be on a quest, then so be it. She didn’t want to spend an extra minute at Tarth.

“Oh, Isa,” she whispered. “Why do you not give me instruction? Why do you always talk in half-truths and send me to people who have no more answers than I myself?” God’s teeth, it was frustrating.

But for one night, she would sleep.

Weariness was already dragging her into slumber. In the morning, she would try to speak to the dead woman again . . .
And what about Gavyn?

Ever since she’d left him, he was never far from her thoughts. She thought of him constantly, wondered where he was and, yes, she wished he was with her.

She reached one arm across the expanse of bedding, where no one lay beside her, and imagined him there. Sighing and pounding her pillow to plump it, she considered his hard muscles, his quick smile, his quicksilver eyes.

She thought of their one brief, heart-pounding kiss, and how she’d looked into his soul and seen that he’d killed a man.

Did it matter?

If he was telling the truth, then he’d killed to save himself and to avenge his mother’s murder.

Then again, he was a liar . . . a bald-faced, self-proclaimed liar. Had he not said so himself? She let out her breath slowly as sleep pulled her under. Her last thought was that she was surely and steadily falling in love with him.

Could there be any worse fate?

The night was cold as demon’s piss, but the drizzling rain had finally stopped and the clouds parted to show a bit of moon. Gavyn rode unerringly past the three rocks, along the water, until he reached Tarth, a village that held bitter memories for him.

The village had grown in the years he’d been gone, but he recognized some of the shops and streets and guided his steed to the one inn with its stable attached. He had friends and relatives here who would give him shelter, but he wanted, at least for one night, to keep to himself. He paid for his horse to be cared for and stabled, then bought a room for the night and found a place at a corner table downstairs where he could sip ale and watch the locals. He listened to the gossip floating from one table to the next while men drank mead or wine, flirted with the innkeeper’s daughter, or played dice.

Gavyn had to ask a few questions to get the conversation rolling, but no one recognized him, perhaps because of his bruises, or more likely because he’d been away awhile. The conversations he overheard entailed little more than cursing about the weather that was damaging crops, or worry about Lord Romney’s son not being able to run the castle as well as his father. The girl who filled his cup, however, was all too willing to gossip in more detail about how a priest was running the keep until the baron returned, and, aye, that she had seen a noblewoman traveling alone, a woman with red hair, dirty clothes, and a white horse.

“Paid for a room she did,” the girl said as she poured another stream of ale into his mazer, “then visited the seamstress before bathing and riding off. We expected her back, but when she came, she had the old woman Gleda with her. Gleda, she’s the goat farmer’s wife. She keeps bees herself and sells honey here and to the cook at the keep.”

Gleda.
He turned the name over in his head but it meant nothing to him.

“So the red-haired girl left to stay with Gleda?”

“Could be.” She lifted a shoulder. “I know not.”

He smiled. “Do you know where Gleda lives?”

“Aye, about a mile outside of town to the east, mayhap less.” She caught her mother’s critical eye. “Oh, I’d best be off taking care of the other customers,” she said hurriedly, her cheeks instantly flaming.

’Twas odd, he thought. Why would Bryanna pay for a room and then vacate it? What had she learned from the farmer’s wife? What was so damned important that the woman returned with her and helped her move out?

He drummed his fingers upon the table, then decided that if he was to find Bryanna, he would have to find the beekeeper. For some reason Bryanna had sought the woman out. He had little doubt it had to do with the map and the dagger. But what?

He lingered a bit longer, listening for anything else that was of interest, then paid for his ale and walked into the night. He glanced up at the castle rising high on the hill, a dark, foreboding keep.

It, too, had been pictured upon Bryanna’s map. A rudimentary square with towers pointing upward.

He walked along the well-trod road leading to the main gate, where puddles and dung and mud had collected in the deep ruts. When he was near the keep, he heard voices from within, then the groan of metal and the grinding of ancient gears as the portcullis was winched upward.