Isolde's Wish (5 page)

Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead and glued his tunic to his spine. He lunged forward and jabbed the point of the borrowed sword through a man’s heart. Another flew from the side, and he parried that blow with such force, the man stumbled backward. A berserk fury lit a fire in his muscles, and he slashed a third man’s face before he heard the pounding of hooves.

A choking dread rushed into his throat, and he threw a wild look at the yard, expecting to see an army closing in on him.

A single piebald mare galloped into the thick of the fighting. On the edge of the group, Sadler spotted the woman he’d shoved into the cottage. She waved frantically at him, urging him to take the mare.

He stuck two fingers between his lips and whistled loudly. The android horse ran into the group of soldiers, confusing and scattering them. Sadler sank his fist into the coarse mane, twisted his grip, and swung into the saddle. The animal bunched beneath him, ready to heed his command. He tore out of the yard.

Clots of sod flew from the hooves. Sadler set his heels into the mare’s flanks and raced her across the field, keeping his body low and tight, riding her bareback with ease. They crested a hill and sped away from the village. Two hours’ hard ride would see him safely across the kingdom’s boundaries. Two hours would separate him from Isolde, with no chance of meeting at midnight.

Isolde, I’m sorry.

He spurred the horse on, the borrowed sword kept firmly in hand. He heard no beat of hooves chasing him. Ahead the evergreen forest rose up black against the sky, rallying his heart. He’d spent many a month wandering this wood and could guide the horse through with speed.

He owed a debt to that woman in the cottage. Surely Sadler had taken her hardworking husband’s horse and sword. He vowed that not only would he return her android horse well oiled and tuned up, but the sword would be polished with his own sweat. He also vowed to find a gift suitable for her kindness, even if he had to trade his good boots.

And he vowed to return to the castle—to slay King Adlard and to beg forgiveness of Princess Isolde.

* * *

A sharp, bitter wind screamed into the copse of trees where Sadler stopped to rest. The horse tossed its head, its mane streaming. He patted its rump and sent it off to forage for what little food existed in this crabby place, though it needed the sticky hay-fuel to fully recharge. For Sadler, there would be no full belly tonight.

He sank to the ground and wiggled his back against a tree trunk, letting the pine branches shelter him from the beginnings of a soaking rain. He prayed Isolde had abandoned the notion of meeting him in this weather. To think of her in the rose garden, bundled against the mean wind and stinging rain, wounded him.

He deserved to take the soaking. What had possessed him to wriggle his arse in the face of the kingdom?

Sadler pinched the bridge of his nose hard, fighting the urge to leap upon the mare’s back and gallop wildly for the castle rose garden. Why had she—no common woman—accepted his kisses, let alone his touch?

The reason clouted him over the head as surely as the soldier’s sword had: for the same reason her mother, the queen, had given herself to a common man. For that feeling in one’s breast—that heartstring that sang like the most beautiful lyre when plucked.

Isolde did that to him, and he to her.

Ye’ve got to go back, he thought, smearing the rainwater off his hot face. She’ll never give ye another chance if ye don’t try to explain.

The blacker, more sinister part of his mind told him she’d never give him a chance to begin with. Risk her good name? Her birthright? Her head?

Still, Isolde held the end of the rope tethered to his heart, and like his father, he knew he must try. In two hours the sun would spill over the lip of the land. A new determination swelled in his breast. He’d made his choice at the age of twelve to assassinate the king for the death of his father. He must move forward with this plan, though he must remain anonymous—make it look as if an unfortunate accident had befallen the country’s leader.

He’d always live as a drifter. Hunted. Wanted. If he wasn’t successful in taking the king’s life without Isolde’s knowledge, Sadler would face worse than a continuation of his wretched lifestyle. He’d face a world without the bright golden light of Isolde’s attentions.

* * *

Sadler guided the mare over the ridge. They crested and began the long, perilous journey down a slide of jagged rocks. He handled the horse tenderly—one slip, and she’d break an ankle. If that happened, he’d be forced to remove its operating core and abandon the android. He hated to dispatch such a dependable animal, and surely it was no way to repay the horse’s owner.

After the night’s drenching rains, his breeches hung heavily on his hips. His tunic was knotted around the hilt of the sword and flapped wildly in the strong wind. The blast in his face dried the sweat on his chest and belly.

Today he’d find a new route into the kingdom. He had run Isolde beyond the castle walls without notice, but now the men-at-arms would be patrolling the parapets and perimeter. Donning a disguise would be a failure—they’d be searching for strange persons entering the kingdom.

Briefly he considered trying to sneak a message to Isolde, but since he didn’t know her state of mind, he discarded it. In her anger over his jilting her, she may turn him in to the king.

He felt a hard tug on that heartstring again. He shielded his eyes and gazed eastward, where the uppermost tip of the castle spire was visible on the horizon. A beam of sunlight kissed the shaft and shattered into a starburst like a great torch.

“Come along, Patsy,” he said, patting the mare’s neck. “We have a castle to penetrate.”

* * *

Sadler hobbled the android horse in proximity to the castle but well hidden from view. If he needed to bolt again, the horse was within whistling distance. From the cover of a small stand of trees, he stared up at the castle tower, hoping to glimpse a blonde head in the high window. If he never got a chance at Adlard again, he had to have a chance at Isolde.

He pressed his nose into the horse’s clean side. “Wish me luck, Patsy.”

The castle yard was empty at this time of day. Just past midday, most servants were indoors, serving the masses in the great hall. But guards patrolled the walls and this time wore armor. Sadler’s leather breeches were no protection against steel.

He gripped the hilt of the sword riding his hip. The quality was not the highest and the blade not quite balanced, but it performed well for him. Still, he hoped to ease past the metal monsters guarding the palace and behind the walls.

A flash of gold caught his eye, and he whipped his head around. Was it Isolde in her golden gown?

And then it rolled past in its bejeweled glory; the king’s carriage was trundling toward the gates. Sadler clenched his fists at the sight. This could be his chance. Four guards clung to the corners of the carriage, and the driver was a slight lad—no match for Sadler. Easily he could catch two guards unawares. The third and fourth could be quickly cut down. The driver would probably piss his pants and run away.

The vulnerable king would be killed. But how would taking out the king bring him closer to Isolde?

For the barest of moments, Sadler hesitated, watching the gold wheels roll by, gathering dust from the road. Before the decision registered in his head, he was running for the carriage door. His footsteps were noiseless compared to the clatter of the wheels and horses’ hooves. The door handle disappeared beneath his fist, and he lifted his legs and swung himself under the carriage, then quickly grappled for handholds on the wooden structure.

Riding six inches off the ground, he braced his feet against the frame and stretched his body taut, shoulder muscles rigid. At the blast of a horn, the gates opened for the king. And for Sadler, clinging to the underside of his carriage.

He held his breath, and his muscles began to quiver with exertion as they neared the looming stone structure. The horses drew to a halt, and a guard dismounted to open the doors.

From his vantage point, Sadler saw the king’s feet as he alighted. They moved through the portcullis.

The driver made two clicks to the horses, and the carriage was rolling again, hopefully to a stable where Sadler could find a lot of hay to conceal himself. Struggling now to keep his belly off the ground, arms burning, sweat dripping into his eyes, he counted the seconds until he reached safety.

They drove around the back of the castle toward an outbuilding at the far edge of the yard. Too far from the castle and from Isolde. He had separated them by a great expanse of open ground. And he’d given up a chance at Adlard to do it.

The scents of fresh hay-fuel and horse met his nose as the carriage was driven into the building.

“How was the king’s outing?” called a male whose boots stood by Sadler’s head.

The driver jumped to the ground softly and joined him. “Fine. He said he needed air, but he never got out of the carriage, and the windows were bolted the entire time.”

Gently Sadler eased himself to the ground, muscles limp and quivering. He stared at the boots, waiting for the men to walk away. But instead they stayed riveted to the spot, making it impossible for him to slip from beneath the carriage unseen.

“Besides that blackguard son of Corbet, other bandits roam the hills. Ye know I worry for ye when ye’re riding the king about the countryside.”

Sadler gave a start. Before he could gather his wits, the boots drew toe-to-toe, and he heard the mash of male bodies and wet kisses. The boots writhed, giving Sadler an all-too-apparent idea as to their actions. But thankfully their moans covered the grating sounds of his clothes brushing the dirt as he scrabbled from his hiding spot.

He crouched for a moment and then circled the side of the carriage, eyes wildly taking in his surroundings, searching for cover. What he spotted was a tunnel at the rear of the building, a cave leading into the earth. He could smell the mustiness and damp hay-fuel. Without light it would be difficult passage, but Sadler knew without a doubt that this tunnel led to the basement of the castle. In the event of a siege, the royal family could escape and have transport awaiting them here.

Sadler crept toward it, hoping the men were too caught up in their love play to see him. In two steps, the darkness swallowed him. He kept one hand on the left wall, feeling for turns and to keep from growing disoriented in the sheer blackness.

How many steps until he reached Princess Isolde? His heart began to sing, and Sadler began to count.

Chapter Five

Isolde’s maid stood behind her, finessing her matted, unruly hair into order. Corliss’s sulky silence abraded Isolde’s calm, and she struggled to keep from snapping. Even the day dawned clear and bright in pointed juxtaposition to her mood.

When Corliss sighed for the fourth time, Isolde’s composure ruptured. “Oh, for the love of flying things, Corliss. Speak yer mind, woman.”

Her gentle fingers stilled in Isolde’s hair, then began to fly furiously over the braids, jamming hairpins into her scalp with bruising brutality. “It’s only that I’m worried for ye, Isolde. Where did ye sneak off to in the night? I’m responsible for yer safety as well as yer comforts—”

“Ye’re not responsible for my safety, and ye know it. Ye’re prickled because ye don’t know where I went.”

“That’s right.”

“And I’m not telling.”

“If ye think I’ll cover for ye against the king, ye’re mistaken.”

“Did I ask?”

“Have it yer way, Princess. But meetin’ with men beneath ye is no practice for a lady of yer worth.”

Isolde turned her face toward the window and focused on the wanted poster tacked to the far tree across the training field. Though she was ruffled that Sadler had left her waiting for hours in the rain, Corliss’s comments perversely sent her thinking in the opposite direction.

“Thank ye for the reminder, Corliss, but ye have no idea what ye’re talking about.”

Corliss dropped her hands from Isolde’s hair and circled her chair. Her face was starkly white against her throat, which was starkly red. She opened her mouth, and for a minute nothing issued from it, but Isolde recognized her confidante’s rising anger. She waited for her shrill scolding.

Instead Corliss gulped it back down. “I have no place lecturin’ ye on yer behavior. Ye’re a grown woman. If ye choose to gallivant about the kingdom with pigs and wild men, ye’re free to do so. But pray do not come crawlin’ to me when ye find yerself with child.”

Isolde rocketed to her feet, sending the chair screeching across the stone floor. She clenched her fists, fighting for control. “That’s what ye think of me!”

“Nay, I do not. But a woman cannot go on a midnight rendezvous without knowin’ her own danger. If ye can honestly tell me ye don’t feel the needs wellin’ within ye, Isolde, then I’ll eat yer slipper.”

“Which one? The filthy one I returned to the castle wearing yesterday morn?”

“That very one.”

Isolde met her maid’s sparking gaze, and the words froze on her lips like an android horse without hay-fuel. She collapsed into the chair in a puff of sky blue silk skirt. She dropped her face into her hands and felt the blush throb against her palms.

“That’s what I thought,” Corliss said quietly. She sank to her knees at Isolde’s feet. “My dear.” She touched Isolde’s crown. “I only hope to save ye from ruin. Ye cannot be meetin’ with a proper gentleman if ye’re havin’ garden trysts.”

Through her fingers, Isolde said thickly, “How did ye know it was the garden?”

“I scraped the mud from yer slippers this morn. Isolde, do ye know what ye’re doin’?”

“Nay,” she cried, peeking through her fingers. “I only know I must see this man or shrivel like a rose on the vine.”

“Ah, child.” Corliss smoothed her hair as she had when Isolde felt sick or frightened. Outside the air fleet clipped past the window, a battalion of ships all bearing the royal colors and crest. Together they watched the vessels bob in the sky.