Sorceress (9 page)

As a child, Bryanna had melded the two, believing a bit of one and sewing it into the fabric of the other, learning from Father Barton at Penbrooke, and Isa, as well.

And now Bryanna feared that she had made a horrible mistake.

She could not possibly be a sorceress. Her faith was not strong enough. She was too weak. The old nursemaid had been wrong about her.

“Isa!” Bryanna railed in frustration, and from the stillness her voice echoed back at her, mocking her despair. “For the love of Morrigu, talk to me.”

When she heard nothing, she stared at the crumpled piece of doeskin in her fist. This map, if that was what it was, made no sense whatsoever. She tossed down the doeskin and nearly spat upon it. What did it matter what the map said if she couldn’t read it?

“And you know this how?” the Lord of Agendor asked the pathetic priest standing before him. He was tired and ready for bed when Father Peter, named after Christ’s most trusted disciple, had imposed upon him.

’Twas odd.

But then so was the priest.

Not trustworthy.

Father Peter was a fleshy man with a hooked nose, weak chin, and absolutely no spine whatsoever. His piety was questionable, his loyalty always in doubt. Yet here he was, in the great hall of Agendor, as if he had some pressing news to impart, or his own conscience to clear.

Deverill waved him into the other chair, one with shorter legs to ensure that no one ever sat taller than the baron.

The priest took the seat gratefully and eyed a platter of cheese, dried prunes, and jellied eggs as hungrily as did the castle dogs who lay near the fire, watching each bite that went into the lord’s mouth.

“A cup for the priest,” Deverill said to a page who had refilled his goblet with wine. He noticed the tiniest of smiles upon the thin lips of this supposed man of God. “Now tell me, Father, in great detail, what it is you think you know.”

And the priest did. As he gulped wine and stuffed himself with cheese, bread, and eggs, Father Peter explained that he’d spoken to a man—not during confession, of course—about a wounded man who’d shown up at Dougal the farmer’s hut nearly a fortnight hence. The man was near dead, to hear Dougal tell it, and without the nursing of his wife, Vala, would not have lived.

“She be a witch, then?” Deverill stated.

“Oh, nay, nay, a pious, God-fearing woman is Vala.” The priest shook his head and swiped at a few crumbs that had fallen onto his cassock.

The three dogs were on their paws in an instant, growling at each other, the largest bitch grabbing the morsel.

“Sit!” Deverill ordered, and the mongrels, snarling just a bit, their silvery-black hackles still stiff, returned to their place by the fire. “Miserable curs,” he said, though in truth he loved the dogs, mayhap more than he did his most recent and decidedly barren wife.

“Vala has a talent, a gift from God in aiding the sick, but I assure you, m’lord, she does not practice the dark arts, nor dabble in the ways of the old ones.”

“Then let us visit her.”

“Now?” the priest said.

“If ’tis true and she’s hiding the traitor, then we shall arrest him.” Deverill snapped his fingers at a page. “Tell the stable master to prepare my horse and alert the captain of the guard that I need five men to ride with me.”

“But, m’lord,” the priest protested, obviously distraught, “I was given this information in confidence, and Dougal promised to surrender his . . . prisoner on the morn.”

“No need to wait then, is there? You said yourself, you did not tell me of another man’s confession. So there is naught to fear, for you’ve broken none of your vows.”

The priest blanched.

Serves the pious liar right,
Deverill thought, already on his feet. Sensing his excitement, the dogs swarmed around him as he ordered the servants to fetch his mantle, sword, and boots. A thrill of excitement sizzled through his blood. If the priest were telling the truth and Dougal had not just been bragging, then, at last, here was a chance to bring Gavyn to justice.

His back teeth clenched hard as he considered his bastard son, the result of many a night spent with a comely seamstress who lived on the outskirts of Agendor. True, as a young man he’d planted his seed wherever he saw fit. ’Twas his grave misfortune that the one bastard child he knew of, the only fruit of his loins, would prove to be a defiant scallywag.

Even as a youth, Gavyn had been a thorn in his side. The boy had resisted Deverill’s help, refusing to catch a few coins tossed his way, never meeting Deverill’s eye. Were his mother not so engaging, Deverill would have flogged the boy himself, more than once. But Ravynne with her ebony hair and silver eyes . . . how they’d rutted through many a night.

Deverill’s lust for the boy’s mother had roiled for years. At times, he thought it might be the death of him, as Ravynne had taken her son far from Agendor, forcing Deverill to ride north to Tarth or off to Penbrooke to quench his voracious need for her.

Aye, it had all ended badly, with his fair but barren wife, Marden, interceding. Recognizing Deverill’s keen lust for the seamstress, Marden had gone behind his back and ordered Ravynne dead. And that fool Craddock had carried out her wishes.

Damn them all! Ravynne’s death had riled the boy beyond reason. ’Twas nearly two years ago and now Gavyn, a man of twenty years, had wrought a vengeance most violent on the sheriff of Agendor. With Craddock’s murder, Gavyn had forced his hand, leaving Deverill no choice but to punish the murderer. Now, at last, Gavyn would be caught, finally brought to justice. His mockery of Deverill would be put to rest.

Over the priest’s weak protests, Deverill yanked on his gloves and strapped on his scabbard, then slid his favorite sword into its sheath. Once his boots were pulled over his leggings, he was out the door, stepping into the brisk wintry night. Most of the huts were dark. Only the coals at the farrier’s forge burned red in the night. His boots crunched through puddles that had already iced over as he strode along the path.

Hunting had always been his favorite pastime, and he loved it best when the quarry proved a challenge.

His bastard son had shown himself to be more than a worthy opponent.

Through the fog, her lover came to Bryanna. Dressed as a hunter and riding upon a dark horse, he appeared through the mist. He was tall, his shoulders wide, his face obscured in the darkness, and yet she knew he was the one for whom she’d been waiting all her life.

“You have the dagger.”

It was not a question, but she answered anyway. “Aye, ’tis mine.”

“And the jewels?”

“I’ve yet to find them.”

“You are traveling north.” He dismounted, but try as she might to view the features of his face, she saw nothing but shadows from his hood and the ever-thickening fog. “For the opal.”

“Yes.” Of course.

“And once you find it, you’ll go east?”

“East?” she repeated, but as she said the single word, she understood a new meaning to the ancient riddle:

All the while she’d thought the mention of points on a map indicated the placement of the missing jewels in the hilt of the dagger, for surely there were holes where they had once been inset. Now, she had a new perspective, a new path to follow.

“Yes,” she said as she realized he was waiting for her to speak. “First I’ll travel north, then east. . . .”

“So you do understand.” He advanced upon her, this huntsman, his face still obscured. Though she could not recognize him and knew not his name, she felt no fear of him, even welcomed him to this, her small camp in the woods.

Before she could look into his eyes, strong arms surrounded her. She didn’t protest, didn’t fight. Her own arms circled his neck, her fingers finding the strident cords at the back of his neck as the wind seemed to rise, swirling through the canyon. He leaned over, bending her back, her hair nearly brushing the barren ground.

Cold, eager lips found hers and he kissed her so hard she could barely find her breath. She heard only the wildly pulsing beat of her own heart, felt the first warm yearnings of desire curl through her blood.

His tongue slid between her teeth, gently teasing as his hands moved against her back, kneading and holding her close. He buried his face in the cleavage of her breasts and her blood ran hot with a newfound desire. She wanted more of him and her fingers dug into the muscles of his back as his hot, wet breath brushed against her bare skin.

“I want you,” he whispered, and his lips caressed the top of a breast.

The wind began to whine and the first stars of the night were visible through the cold wintry haze.

By the gods, she ached for him.

As if understanding her need, he stripped down her bodice, exposing her skin. Goose bumps rose on her flesh. Her nipples puckered in the icy night air. But inside she was heating, warming to the touch of his body, the smell of his musk.

She knew there was no turning back.

This man of the shadows, a familiar stranger, unlaced her tunic, pulling it to the ground. Then, kissing her, he untied her chemise to let it puddle around her.

“Who are you?” she asked, as he untied his breeches and over the moan of the wind, so soft it was barely discernible, she heard the cry of a babe.

“You know.”

Of course she did, but she couldn’t call up his name as he turned her, and the infant’s muted cry again reached her ears.

“Wait,” she said as his hands surrounded her, holding her breasts. But the crying stopped and he pressed hard against her from the rear, parting her legs. Bracing himself against the bole of a tree, he drove, drove deep into the most feminine part of her.

She gasped.

He thrust again.

Oh, by the saints, her mind was spinning. Surely that was not a child crying, surely her mind was playing tricks upon . . . Oh God, he slid out only to push hard again.

She melted against him, hot and malleable and breathing with difficulty as he moved back and forth, in and out, his rhythm and breathing slow and hard at first, then faster and faster, to a frantic pace as the forest and sky began to spin around her.

“Oh, sweet Morrigu,” she cried, feeling as if she might collapse. With a final thrust, he let out a yell that pierced the night. Her body jerked in release, and as she panted in his arms, jewels rained from the starlit sky.

Opals, shimmering with the color of the moon.

Emeralds verdant as a forest.

Topaz as bright and sparkling as the sun.

And finally rubies, dark and deep, the color of blood, pouring to her feet, the sharp edges cutting her skin as her lover scraped aside her hair and pressed a sharp gem into the tender skin of her neck.

Bryanna’s eyes flew open. She lay inside the cleft in the rock, a small recess that was not much of a cave. The fire was still burning, the embers bright in the night, the flames low and hissing against the charred wood. Her heart was still knocking wildly, her skin moist with sweat, though now that she was fully awake she shivered.

The dream had been so real, so vivid. Lying against the smooth leather of her saddle, Bryanna rubbed her arms and searched the darkness, seeing only Alabaster, a ghostly mare tied to a nearby tree. Nothing was out of place. Nothing was disturbed.

And yet the dream lingered. Who was the huntsman who had been her lover? Why had she trusted him? How had he known about the jewels and her dagger? Had she really heard a baby crying over their cries of passion? Why had she so eagerly given herself to a faceless man, who, in the end, had turned on her? She touched the back of her neck and withdrew her hand. Upon her fingers was the slightest trace of blood.

Hers?

She cringed as she remembered the dream. . . .

Swallowing hard, she told herself that she had, no doubt, scratched herself in her sleep. That was all. Mayhap she’d dozed against a spot where a rock’s edge was sharp, or a tiny branch from one of the trees had blown against her neck.

Why then had her hair not protected her from the cut?

“Bother and broomsticks,” she whispered, feeling as if the timberland were truly closing in on her. It was then she realized she was holding her dagger, as she did each night as she fell asleep. Turning the blade over in her hand, she wondered who had crafted it so long ago and what had happened to its precious stones. Were they cast to the four winds as the dream, nay, the
prophecy
had foretold?

Sweet Mother, was that what the dream had been? An omen? A vision into the future?
Her
future?

Bitter dread gripped her heart.

What, in the name of Morrigu, had she gotten herself into?

“Trust in yourself.”
Isa’s voice rang through the woods and echoed in her mind.
“’Tis almost time. You’ve learned much, daughter. By nightfall two days hence, you will come to a keep. ’Tis the castle of your mother.”

“My mother?” Bryanna repeated, disgusted. “Nay, Isa, I’ve been traveling far from where my mother was born.”

But Isa’s voice was still again, and Bryanna glanced behind her, certain that she was being watched.

By the spirit of her old nursemaid?

Or by someone else?

Some
thing
else.

She swallowed hard as the wind turned before ebbing to nothing. ’Twas as if a demon’s cold breath had whispered over her skin.

The sounds of the night were suddenly still.

The frogs had stopped their croaking, the wind had ceased to rattle the bare branches, and the insects were no longer singing their night songs. Even the brook, rushing nearby, sounded muted and quiet, as if afraid to ripple over its stones.