Sorceress (38 page)

That Hallyd had gone from priest to baron only reinforced his opinion. If the man were a true believer, a disciple of God and Christ, why would he lay down his vestments and don the armor of a warrior? Why sacrifice piety for physical reward?

“So let us visit your lord,” Deverill said, urging his horse forward. “You go on ahead and tell him I seek an audience with him.”

“That I will.” The spy kicked his mule of an animal and took off flying down the lush grass of the hillside, heading toward a creek’s swollen current.

Deverill and his company followed at a slower pace, allowing time for Cael to bring word of their arrival to Hallyd and his men.

By the time they reached the main gate, they were allowed to pass. Pages collected the reins of the horses and the captain of the guard promised care for the animals, as well as food and drink for Deverill and his men.

Inside the gloomy keep, the soldiers were offered roast pig, salted eels, and tarts of mince along with cheese, wine, and jellied eggs. Deverill was brought to the main table, where Hallyd, a big man in a black tunic, stood and greeted him.

As pages poured wine and the men ate, Hallyd discussed little other than running the keep, the trouble with servants, a bad crop of hay, and the weather. Only when their trenchers had been pushed aside and they were sipping wine did he say, “Cael told you what we discovered, about your horse and son.”

“You mean the murderer and thief,” Deverill corrected him. “I do not think of Gavyn as a son.” He made a broad you-understand-this motion with his hand. “He was the result of lifting one too many skirts. Though I do not doubt he is the product of my bedding his mother, I do not think of him as my son. A bastard he is and will always be.”

“You only want him brought to justice.” Hallyd drank from his cup and looked at Deverill with eyes that appeared oddly owlish, dark centers with the tiniest ring of color about the huge pupils.

Those eyes . . . like chambers in hell. Deverill had seen much in his life—anomalies and hideous injuries, a man run through with a lance, another beheaded during battle, a family lost to fire—but never had he looked at a man and sensed such a darkness as that which seeped from this man. It was as if Hallyd was devoid of a soul.

’Tis only his eyes,
his mind insisted, but he knew Hallyd’s evil ran far deeper. For the first time in a long, long while, Lord Deverill of Agendor felt more than a drip of fear.

“My interest is not in your son . . . er, the murderer,” Hallyd said, leaning back in his chair. “He can live or die or be banished and I care not.”

“But the woman?”

“Ahh, yes, just as you and the man have a conflict to resolve—”

Deverill snorted. Conflict? ’Twas not a conflict. Gavyn had been a burr in his side from the moment Ravynne had borne him. Deverill enjoyed a conflict, looked forward to a battle. Gavyn, the killer and horse thief, was far, far worse than a simple conflict.

“—I have a score to settle with the woman. You know I am a man of great faith and spent many years in the service of God and His Holy Son. So it pains me that the woman is rumored to be a sorceress, and she has something of mine of great value. Just as the murderer has your horse, this woman has a dagger that belongs to me. My men and I were preparing to ride this evening, to a place where the thief and woman were spotted. Mayhap we can strike a deal to run them to the ground. If we ally together, combine our armies, split them into small companies that can canvass a greater area and flush them out”—he appeared to warm to his topic—“then, when we finally find them, we’ll divide the spoils.” His smile was pure evil. “You take the bastard to face justice, and I’ll deal with the witch. Together, we will divide and conquer,” he suggested in a tone that made Deverill’s blood run cold.

The Lord of Agendor hesitated.

Intuitively he knew that any connection to a soulless being like Hallyd was a mistake. And yet, the man was right, they could help each other. He offered his hand, and Hallyd shook it firmly while motioning to a page with the other.

“More wine,” Hallyd insisted. “We have much to celebrate with our new alliance.”

The page, a pockmarked boy with floppy brown hair, scurried from the great hall.

Releasing Deverill’s hand, Hallyd fixed those eerie eyes upon him and said solemnly, “Now, I’m going to tell you a tale about a witch, a dagger, and a curse. And then, my friend, we’ll ride.”

Holywell was bustling, the town crowded and flush with peddlers and farmers’ carts. Children ran through the streets chasing dogs. Geese honked, goats bleated, and cart wheels creaked.

The trek to this village had taken longer than Gavyn had anticipated, the travel slow and treacherous. It had been nearly a fortnight since they had stood on the mountain and decided to travel here, that day when he’d deciphered the symbols on Bryanna’s doeskin map. Though the distance itself had not been great, the terrain had been nearly impassable, the weather ranging from snow to sleet to sunshine promising spring.

Slowing their journey even more, Bryanna had wearied often and developed a ravenous appetite. Fortunately the forests had been rife with game. Now, as the horses made their way through the gates of Holywell into the town, the packhorse was carrying the skins of many animals that had given up their lives to Gavyn’s arrows. He had collected a nice bundle of fox, weasel, badger, rabbit, and mink skins, the lot of which he would barter for food, shelter, and wine.

“Come,” he said to Bryanna. He hitched his chin toward an inn with horn windows and thick shutters. “Let’s find you a room.”

He thought she might protest, but instead she offered the tiniest of smiles, the first he’d seen in nearly a day. Once inside a small establishment that smelled of wood smoke and roasted meat, he paid the innkeeper, a dry, spindly man, for the room, then carried their pitiful few pouches up the stairs.

His “wife” followed slowly behind him. As they had since the onset of their journey, they claimed they were a married couple, Cain and Brynn, and though he’d never considered himself the kind to settle down with one woman, a part of him wanted to be with Bryanna always.

A stupid thought, he told himself as he left her alone to rest while he saw that the horses were stabled, fed, watered, and groomed.

From there he found a tailor, whose face softened when Gavyn began pulling soft animal pelts from his satchel. After some discussion, Gavyn ended up with coins in his pocket and a new tunic of deep forest green for himself. He also purchased a warm woolen mantle trimmed in rabbit for Bryanna, along with another tunic that cost him more than he could afford to spare. Nonetheless, he was pleased with his purchases, especially the mantle, as the cowl could be drawn about her face and the fur would be soft against her skin.

He returned to the inn with his prizes, then, before climbing the stairs, ordered them bread and cheese, a platter of sliced, roasted boar, and a jug of wine. He’d started for the steps once again before another thought struck him. Turning back to the innkeeper, he requested that a bath be brought to their room.

But it was too late.

When he opened the door of the room, he found Bryanna already asleep, her small body curled under the blankets of the bed. She looked so peaceful, he hated to disturb her. He tiptoed around the room with his purchases, unable to resist stealing glances at her resting form. Red curls tumbled over the pillow, and her skin glowed pale as a summer moon in the shadowed room.

“By the gods, what are you staring at?” She opened one eye and he laughed aloud.

“Were you trying to trick me by feigning sleep?” he asked.

“I was just dozing, resting my eyes. I thought you would be gone a while. . . .” She sat up and yawned, stretching one arm over her head before she spied the bundle in his arms. “What have you done?”

“I’ve been bartering. I bought myself a new tunic.” He held up his purchase.

“At last!” She grinned. “Now we can finally wash the one you’re wearing. ’Tis smelly.”

He rolled his eyes. “And one for you.” He held up the long gown and she gasped, a hand covering her mouth. “It’s beautiful, but how did you—”

“It seems a mink skin or two is worth much.” Holding up the mantle, he said, “This will keep you warm. Yours has been worn thin.”

Her eyes rounded and she threw back the covers before she realized she was wearing only her chemise. “Oh.” She blushed to the roots of her hair and hurriedly reached for her old mantle, tossed carelessly on the foot of the bed.

“Don’t,” he said, approaching her and slowly wrapping the new cloak over her shoulders. The soft folds fell nearly to the floor and he drew the laces tight enough that the fur tickled her chin.

“Thank you, but, really, you should not have spent your money on this.” Tears touched the corners of her eyes.

“I wanted to.”

“Gavyn—”

“Cain,” he reminded her. As she gazed up at him, he couldn’t resist. For the first time in what seemed like a lifetime, he kissed her, drawing her near, feeling her supple, yielding lips. The breath of a sigh escaped her as her knees gave way and he caught her in his arms.

Closing his eyes, his arms wrapped around her small body, he felt lost in her. His mind swirled with erotic images of making love to her, of lying on this bed and feeling her writhing beneath him. He imagined her fingers sliding down his chest and reaching lower to his abdomen. . . .

A rap sounded at the door.

“Someone is here?” she asked, pulling away.

“The innkeeper,” he said, his head still reeling despite his empty arms. She reached for her tunic, but he shook his head. “You’re fine.”

He opened the door to the two boys lugging a wooden tub. Gavyn stepped back as they carried it in, then hurried back downstairs for buckets of warm water. As the boys filled the tub, a young girl who resembled the stern innkeeper lined it with towels and placed a cake of lavender soap nearby. As the boys lugged in the final buckets of steaming water, the innkeeper’s daughter delivered their wine and a tray of smoked meat and cheese, along with eggs, apple tarts, and dark bread.

Bryanna, who had sat poised on the bed, her hands folded in her lap as the servants hustled about, thanked them as they finished up and filed out the door. “This is quite splendid, Cain,” she teased, taking in the food and steaming tub. “Who knew one could be treated as royalty in the town of Holywell?”

Gavyn couldn’t help but return her smile as he poured her a cup of wine. “Bathe first. The food will wait.”

“And what will you do?”

He eyed the size of the wooden vat. “Watch, of course.”

“Gav— Cain!”

“Well, ’tis too small for both of us. You go first.”

“In front of you? Are you daft?”

“I’ll turn my back.”

“If you think that you can give me a nice new mantle and then I’ll let you . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“I think we’ve come too far to worry about impropriety, don’t you?” He poured himself a cup of wine and sat on a stool near the fire. “Hurry, now. ’Tis not getting any warmer.”

“Fie and fiddlesticks,” she grumbled, walking to the tub, then waiting until he dutifully turned away from her.

He could hear the rustle of her new mantle falling to the floor, then the sounds of water splashing. There was no reflective metal or piece of glass in the room, so once he was certain she was inside the tub and had a few minutes to clean off some of the grime from the journey, he turned again so that he was facing her.

“Gavyn!” she nearly shrieked, and he grinned wickedly as he watched her cover her breasts with her hands. “Leave!”

He took a sip from his cup. “Never. And it’s—”

“Cain. Yes, I know.” With one slick, dripping arm, she pointed to the door. “Leave, now. If you were a gentleman—”

“You would hate it. You wouldn’t be here with me. Trust me, Brynn, ’tis not just fate that put us together. You like being with me. You’d be bored to death with a gentleman.”

“You arrogant son of a cur! I’ve never heard anything so inane in my life. I do not
like
being with you. At the very least I wouldn’t feel the heated compulsion to wring a gentleman’s neck every step of this quest.”

“Nor would he help you dig up graves in the middle of the night, or hide the fact that you stole a horse and who knows what else from a woman who was murdered. Nay, I think you prefer to be with a ruffian like me. You enjoy my lack of propriety.”

He leaned back on his stool, took another sip, and enjoyed the view. Her wet, curling hair ruffled around her flushed face. Her greenish eyes narrowed at him in fury. And her body, white skin visible beneath the shimmering surface.

“For the sake of decency . . . ,” she tried again.

But he felt his grin grow wider at the anger in her eyes, the way she tried to hide her nipples, pinkish disks that slipped through her fingers.

Suddenly she snatched up the slippery cake of soap and threw it at him. He ducked as it screamed past. The soap hit the fireplace, fell with a clunk, then skidded across the floor. “Turn around, damn it!”

“Now, wife, is that any way to talk to your husband?”

“You are not—”

He hadn’t intended to do anything but watch her, but the soap gave him inspiration. “I think you’ll need this,” he said, picking up the wet cake. Rather than tossing it to her, he placed his leather cup on the mantel and crossed the few feet that separated them.

“Oh, for the love of Rhiannon!” She tried to cover herself with one arm while stretching out the other and opening her palm, as if she expected him to just drop the slick bar into her hand and leave her be.

But he had other ideas.

To her horror—or was there a bit of interest in those angry eyes?—he rolled up his sleeves.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, as if anyone else was in the room. “Gavyn, don’t you dare—”