Medieval Rogues (71 page)

His expression grim, Brant nodded. “I expect so.”

“We—”

“Raise the torch. More to the right.”

His words weren’t a request, but an order, sharpened by intense excitement. She obeyed, unable to quell a shudder of revulsion.

The flickering torchlight illuminated the body turned on its side, as though the deceased had fallen asleep among the rocks. The skull gaped, black eye and nose sockets framed by yellow-white bones, rendered even more stark by the tufts of dark hair clinging to the skull. A rotting cloak covered the body from shoulder to thigh. Bones protruded from what must once have been leather boots.

She watched, hardly daring to breathe, while with the sword tip, Brant lifted the edge of the cloak. Draped over splayed bone fingers, disintegrating fabric—a tunic, mayhap—still bore the remnants of an embroidered border of interlocking knots.

By the holy saints!
In her quick skim through Royce’s journal, Faye had glimpsed similar knot designs.

“These garments are not of our time. This man died years ago.” Shock softened Brant’s voice.

“How long ago?” Faye whispered, needing him to voice her own, incredible suspicions.

“Centuries ago, I vow.”

With stunning clarity, Greya’s word came back to her.
Some folk do not believe King Arthur died. There are legends he and his most trusted knights lie asleep somewhere in England’s hills. When they are needed, they will awaken to battle the enemies who threaten our lands. Once again, they will lead us to victory
.

Faye glanced further along the rocks. Her gaze fell upon another mound of fabric. And another.

“There are more bodies. Do you think—?”

“—these people died here? Mayhap.” After gently withdrawing his sword to let the cloth fall back into place, Brant stood. “’Tis more likely the flood water unearthed the bodies and washed them from their burial place.”

She shook her head, for she hadn’t wondered if they had died here. Somehow, she sensed that they had. “Brant,” she said softly, “do you think this man . . . Could he be—?”

A rock clattered in the passage leading to the cave. Val barked. Faye spun to glance at the cavern opening, then whirled back to look at Brant. His gaze locked with hers.

Without a word, he brushed past her, both hands tight on the sword’s grip. He halted between her and the cavern entrance, his posture tense.

“Stay back,” he said.

Val stood by his side, ears pricked. Footfalls carried from the outer passage, and the little dog yapped again.

“Not far ahead,” a man’s voice shouted in the passage.

The footfalls grew louder.

Faye’s hands clenched. Trapped in this cavern, she could die here. The vile scheme Torr had initiated by kidnapping Angeline—whatever that scheme might be—would continue unhindered, the little girl’s fate left to his whims.

She would
not
perish here in this forgotten cave. She must save Angeline.

Pivoting on her heel, she hurried along the dark pool.

“Where are you going?” Brant called to her.

“To find another way out.”

“Good. I will fend off the guards as long as I can.”

As long as I can
. Faye fought an anguished gasp, for she understood the veiled meaning in his words: until he was dead.

Bittersweet regret washed through her. Fighting a torrent of gratitude, despair, and—heaven forbid—love, she glanced back at him. Until the very end, he would be her protector. “Thank you.” How desperately inadequate those words seemed.

The corner of his mouth ticked up in a grin. He nodded.

Ahead, the stone inclined in shallow steps. Holding the torch aloft, Faye scrambled up, using her free hand to steady herself as her shoes slipped over the water-streaked rock. Reaching a narrow plateau, she straightened.

Light burst into the cavern.

Faye glanced at the cave opening. Armed men streamed in, moving to block the one route of escape, their footfalls cacophonous in the enclosed cavern.

Facing them all, Brant crouched, poised to attack. “Go, Faye,” he yelled.

Her gaze traveled over his taut, muscled body. How brave and proud he looked, a lone warrior facing impossible odds. For her.

She blinked hard, wrenched her gaze away, and stepped up onto the next rock level, fighting for balance on the slick surface.

Sudden silence descended.

“Faye.”

She lurched as Torr’s voice carried in the cavern. Thrown back from the surrounding walls, his acknowledgment held an ominous quality. A dark, intangible power. Barely regaining her balance, she looked at him. His lips curved up in a mirthless smile. His gaze slid from her to Brant. “Meslarches.”

Torr stepped forward with a faint chime of his chain mail armor. Unscrewing the top of a flask, he drank, then shoved the vessel into the leather bag at his side. His tone gentle, he said, “’Tis all right, Faye. I know you are very frightened, after all that has happened, but I am here now. I will keep you safe.” Tilting his head, he signaled to his men to move further into the cavern. They fanned out on either side of Brant.

“Come down from the rocks, Faye. Walk to me. Together, we will return to Caldstowe.”

He spoke so pleasantly. An illusion. She sensed tremendous anger lurking just beneath the surface of his genial façade. Fury he might unleash upon her for stealing the journal.

“
Now
, Faye.”

Her chin tilted up at his brusque tone. “I am not going back to Caldstowe.”

Astonishment flared in Torr’s gaze before he laughed, a sound akin to rocks grating together. “What do you mean?” His smile wavered, as though he struggled not to laugh again. “You must be suffering shock. I know you have endured a great deal, and that your trust has been shattered by one you trusted.” Glaring at Brant, Torr added, “’Twill be all right, Faye. Return to Caldstowe with me, and you will see ’tis so.”

“Leave her be,” Brant growled.

“Brave words from a murderer who used her to escape. You will suffer for your boldness, Meslarches. I will see to it myself.” His feigned pleasantness returned. “Come here, Faye. Please, do not keep me waiting.”

A shudder crawled down her back. “As I told you, I am not returning to Caldstowe.”

“Where will you go, then?” He flung out a hand, indicating the cavern, as if to point out the idiocy of her statement. To show the futility of her wish to govern her own destiny.

The frustration simmering inside her for so many agonizing days welled inside her. Here, now, she would ask the dangerous question she wanted answered. “Torr, where is Angeline?”

His mouth dropped in surprise. His expression hardened with suspicion. “
What
?”

“You arranged her abduction.”

Shocked murmurs rippled through the guards.

“Do not be foolish!” Torr said. “What a shame that your shock has made you distrust everyone who cares for you.”

She forged on, fighting the dread and fear begging her to be silent. “One of the maidservants at Caldstowe saw you hand Angeline to two cloaked riders. Brant spoke with the young woman.”

“Brant?” Torr sneered. “You believe
him
? A condemned criminal? How he deluded you.”

Brant swore. Staring at Torr, his hands flexing on the sword, he seemed to be struggling to control his fury.

“The witness did not doubt what she saw,” Faye said.

Torr’s eyes narrowed. “What is her name?”

“I . . .” She swallowed hard. If she betrayed Blythe, Torr might send his men after her. If the girl went missing, or died, there would be no one to speak against him.

“Why will you not tell me? Do you not know?” When Faye didn’t reply, he giggled as though she’d told a delightful jest. “Milady, he spoke false to you. He deliberately corrupted your trust and loyalty to me, until you believed his every word.”

“I had no reason to lie to her about Angeline,” Brant said. “You, however—”

“Do not distort the truth!” Torr roared. “You are a murderer. A man who killed his own brother. You will suffer for your crimes.” He reached for his sword. The cold, bright metal hissed out of the scabbard.

Oh, God!
She couldn’t bear to see Brant cut down. From Torr’s merciless expression, he intended Brant a painful death.

“What of Angeline?” Faye cried. “She could be in grave danger.”

“True. Surrender, Meslarches. Spare us from wasting moments that could be spent on more pressing matters.”

Brant snorted. “Surrender? I think not. I am waiting for you to answer Faye’s question.”

A scowl creased Torr’s brow. “Meslarches—”

“Tell me where to find Angeline,” Faye said. “Then I will tell you where to find the journal.”

Torr froze. “Journal?”

Faye’s fingers curled tighter on the sputtering torch. How clever of him to pretend ignorance. “The private journal of Brant’s brother, Royce. You kept it hidden under the floorboards in your solar.”

Torr inhaled sharply. His sword arm trembled.

“The tome contains details of a lost Celtic treasure—”

“Shut up!” Turning to his men, he snapped, “Leave the torches. Wait outside.” With frantic fingers, he groped for his leather flask. He guzzled the drink, liquid running from the corners of his mouth.

The guards looked at each other. “Milord?”

Torr stowed the flask. “When I need you, I will summon you. Leave us.”

“But—”

He lashed out with his weapon, narrowly missing one of the guards. His expression wild, he swung again. “Get . . .
out
!”

The men hurried from the cavern. Their muttered voices echoed in the passageway. Before the last guard retreated, Torr grabbed his arm and spoke in his ear. With a nod, the guard headed out of the cavern.

Torr stood motionless until the noises faded. Then his head swiveled and he glared at Faye. “I did not think you to be a stupid woman. You are very foolish to goad me, after all I have done for you.”

Fear buzzed in her veins, but she refused to break his gaze. “You left me no other choice, if I wish to find Angeline.”

Torr spat out of the side of his mouth. “The journal, Faye.”

She bit back an indignant cry. His careless tone, his nonexistent concern for his little girl, was unforgivable. How could a child’s life be worth less than a book of musings on a treasure that might never be found?

Refusing to yield to his challenging stare, she said, “First, Angeline.”

His brows rose. He laughed, a shrill noise that mocked her demand as ludicrous. “Why?”

Smoke from the burning torch stung Faye’s eyes. She would never forget her last moments with Elayne, her friend’s lovely, golden hair matted with sweat, her eyes bleak and blood shot, her skin too pale, each wheezing breath dragging her closer to death. “When Elayne lay dying,” Faye said, “I promised her I would watch over Angeline. I never break a promise.”

“Look where that vow has brought you.”

His mocking words hurt, rubbing like vinegar into her raw, emotional wounds. Her whole body ached with the anguish. But if he thought she would cede ground in this battle, he had misjudged her. “Indeed,” she said quietly, “and look where it has brought
you
.”

Astonishment flared in Torr’s eyes.

“How quick you are to make demands, but still, you have not answered my question: Where is Angeline?”

Admiration gleamed in Torr’s gaze before he chuckled. The throaty sound transformed to a booming laugh that echoed up to the cavern’s shadowed ceiling. “What a bold woman you are. No longer the meek, grieving widow who came to Caldstowe with not a penny to her name. Not even a babe.”

He sneered the word “babe.” Faye swallowed painfully. Her palm pressed to her stomach as a silent, agonized scream broke inside her.

“You bastard,” Brant growled.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Faye glared at Torr. “How dare you remind me of my child? This wretched abduction is not about me.”

“Is it not?” Torr muttered, so quietly she almost didn’t hear.

Faye frowned. “What do you mean?”

Before she could demand an explanation from him, footfalls carried again from the passage to the cavern. A triumphant grin spread across Torr’s features as a guard—the man to whom Torr had whispered moments ago—emerged. Against his chain-mail-armored chest, he cradled an object wrapped in a blanket.

Faye’s gaze darted to the skeletal remains of the Celtic man, even as misgiving jolted through her. Whoever—or whatever—lay wrapped in the blanket was much smaller than the dead man.

No larger than a . . . child.

Oh, God
.

Her knees wobbled. Shaking her head, she fought the deluge of dreadful possibilities crowding her mind.

Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God!

The words became an inner chant, a desperate prayer, as Torr motioned to the rocks near his feet. “There.”

The guard’s wary expression deepened. “Surely not, milord. ’Tis damp and—”

“
Do it
!” Torr screamed. His face reddened with the vehemence of his command. The guard’s face whitened as he knelt to set the blanket down. “Leave,” Torr snapped.

The guard bowed and turned on his heel. Before he’d taken two steps, Torr lunged, striking with his sword. The blade slashed across the guard’s thigh unprotected by chain mail. Blood spurted.

Faye shrieked.

The man screamed. “Milord! Mercy! Why—?”

“Shut up.”

The guard staggered and fell to his knees, groping for his weapon. Raising his blade, Torr struck out again. The man’s head landed on the rocks with a grisly
thud
, then rolled down into the inky pool. With the eerie
clink
of chain mail links, the guard’s body collapsed.

Breathing through his teeth, Torr wiped perspiration from his brow. He swung to face Faye and Brant.

“Why did you kill him?” Brant demanded.

“He questioned my command. He will not do so again.” His lips curved into a malicious smile. “If you are wise, you will do exactly as I say.”

Fear clawed up inside Faye, as terrifying as a flesh-eating demon. Torr had just committed murder, but he showed not the slightest remorse. Unlike Brant, who lived in torment because he’d killed his brother.

Her gaze returned to the blanket by his feet. What else was Torr capable of?

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Brant’s hand move. A signal. Val scampered across the rocks. Nose down, he cautiously approached the wrapped bundle and sniffed it.

Wiping his forehead again, Torr laughed. The shrill cackle sounded almost inhuman.

“We are listening, Torr,” Brant said, each word deliberate and calm, as though he reasoned with a temperamental child. “What is in the blanket?”

The fabric stirred. A moan. A tiny, pathetic sound.

Faye’s breaths shortened until she was panting. She scrambled over the slippery rocks. “
Angeline
?”

“Never!” Horror echoed in Brant’s voice.

Torr grinned.

Scooting forward, Val sniffed the blanket again and snagged it with his teeth. He tugged, revealing a mass of flaxen curls and a rounded shoulder encased in dirty, yellow wool.

Another tug revealed the drawn face of a little girl. She lay on her side, eyes closed, her lashes still against ghostly pale skin.

“Angeline,” Faye cried.

Slipping, sliding, she scrambled across the stone steps. Sobs wrenched up inside her, originating in her grief for her own babe. How she yearned to hug Angeline, to kiss her silky hair, to promise that whatever had befallen her, she would soon be safe.

Reaching level ground, Faye jammed the torch into a rock crevice and hurried toward Angeline. “You are safe, my lamb,” she called to the little girl. “I promise.”