Suzanne Robinson (32 page)

Pen gave a little cry as she heard the priest’s voice. No one had to remind her of her promise; she scurried around to Morgan’s back even as he snatched her wrist and pulled her in that direction. On tiptoe she stared over his shoulder at Jean-Paul.

Dressed for riding, shrouded in a dark cloak, he stood between the entrance slabs. Two men-at-arms flanked him and pointed swords at her and Morgan while another stood behind his master. Jean-Paul walked toward them.

“Truly God watches over his servants,” the priest said. “I had just set Henri to watch for intruders, when he glimpsed movement in the trees. A few minutes’ patience, and I was rewarded. The prey trotted into my lair.”

Pen felt Morgan’s body tense as the priest drew near.

“Where were you?” Morgan asked.

“Why, in back of the outer stones you couldn’t see behind. Each is large enough to hide three men, I knew I was right to come to this place afoot. But I have no desire to converse with you,
Anglais
. You and the witch have cost me much, but I’ve learned. You’ll not befuddle me with diversions again, and I’ll offer you no opportunity to escape. This time I’ve learned
not to try to hold on to a devil’s tail. Henri, separate them.”

Pen was shoved farther behind Morgan as he backed up to draw his sword.

“
Non
,
Anglais
, look.”

They both followed the direction of Jean-Paul’s glance to see that one of the guards had drawn a knife and was aiming it at Pen.

Jean-Paul laughed. “Come, I am in haste. If you make no trouble, I’ll forgo my vengeance upon the lady.”

“Why should we believe you?” Pen snarled.

The priest smiled sweetly at her. “Look at your lover, Mistress Fairfax. Look into his eyes and read the truth. You have little choice, and he knows it.
Alors
, he must take the only chance there is.”

Pen moved to face Morgan and gazed into the depths of placid blackness—and saw resignation.

“Don’t,” Pen said as Morgan’s hand fell away from his sword. “They’ll kill us anyway.”

She grabbed at him as he stepped from her, but he pulled her hands from him and set her aside. She clutched him, but the man with the knife captured her. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders. Pen ground her teeth, fighting the desire to bite his hand until she hit bone.

“Morgan, don’t!” she cried.

He didn’t listen. Stepping toward Jean-Paul, he allowed the men-at-arms to relieve him of his sword. Pen held her breath as they stepped back, her spirits rising. But Jean-Paul caused them to plummet when he approached his prisoner, felt in his boot, and withdrew the serpent dagger. Jean-Paul shook his head at Morgan, then impaled the weapon in the dirt at Pen’s feet.

Morgan shouted and lunged, but two men jumped on him. Pen wrestled uselessly with her own captor as the third pummeled Morgan in the gut. Morgan bent over, suspended between the other two guards. The third cuffed him, and Morgan swayed dizzily. Jean-Paul said something in French, and Morgan was dragged to the heel stone and slammed against it. Each guard grabbed a wrist and stretched Morgan so that his chest was exposed to Jean-Paul, who drew his sword.

Pen shrieked at the priest, but he paid her no heed. He walked toward Morgan, who was panting and shaking his head as if trying to regain his vision. Pen screamed at Jean-Paul as he passed her, then realized that she was doing Morgan no good. Desperation cleared her thoughts of terror. She had no time for fear; she couldn’t afford it, for her fits of terror would cost Morgan his life.

The serpent dagger remained embedded in the wet earth at her feet. Pen looked down at it. The golden serpents began to writhe. She nearly whimpered, and her bones threatened to crumble into the consistency of ground ginger. What saved her was one unconquerable desire—to save Morgan. The serpents coiled as if to spring.

“Oh, no,” she said in a quivery voice. “I won’t have it.”

She glared at them, and they stopped moving. Relieved, she sagged within her captor’s arms. Overbalanced by the sudden increase in weight, the man grunted and stumbled forward. They toppled over, and he threw out a hand to stop himself from hitting the ground. Pen had been waiting for her chance. When he loosened his hold, she grabbed the dagger, dropped to her knees, and curled into a ball. Rolling on her shoulder, she twisted and kicked the man in
his face. She felt a crunch, and blood spurted from his nose.

Not waiting to see if he pursued her, Pen whirled and ran. As she ran, she screamed.

“Morgan!”

She gripped the dagger in her fist and aimed for Jean-Paul. She couldn’t throw it, but she could stab with it. Jean-Paul turned as she screamed and lifted his sword. Realizing the danger, Pen swerved without stopping and leapt for one of the men struggling to keep hold of Morgan. At the same time, she heard a clamor from beyond the standing stones.

“Mistress, we’re coming!”

Jean-Paul cursed and turned from his pursuit of her to face Dibbler and his Highcliffers.

Pen dashed at one of Morgan’s guards, jabbed with the dagger, and sprang back. The man yelled, dropped Morgan’s arm, and clutched his own. Morgan’s free arm jerked, and his fist punched into the face of the remaining guard. The guard released his hold on Morgan, who kicked him in the head. The man dropped to the ground senseless.

Pen had watched during the few moments it took Morgan to free himself, but she whirled to face Jean-Paul as he ran at them. Behind the priest lay Dibbler, Erbut, and Sniggs, nursing sore heads and wounds. Jean-Paul was almost upon them, and she couldn’t throw a dagger. She felt the serpents begin to writhe beneath her hand, but before she could succumb to the horror, Morgan snatched the blade from her.

Jean-Paul was charging at them, sword pointed at her. Pen stared, unmoving. Then she felt a blow to her shoulder as Morgan knocked her out of the way, cocked his arm, and threw the dagger. The blade hit the priest in the chest as he raised his sword over
his head and let out a cry of triumph. There was a thud as steel pierced flesh. Pen saw the triumph in his face turn to astonishment, then a grimace of pain and disbelief.

Transfixed by the sight of life fading from this malignant scourge, Pen barely realized that Morgan had snatched her into his arms. He half led, half carried her to stand between the priest and Dibbler. Pen looked from one to the other of her men.

They had managed to overcome the man who had held her before the priest got to them. Dibbler was bleeding from a sword cut on his arm, while Erbut nursed a cut in the head. Sniggs was already whining as he rocked back and forth and clutched a bleeding foot.

She felt a tug on her skirt and glanced down at Jean-Paul. “Morgan!”

She clutched Morgan’s arm as they knelt beside the priest. Pen could feel her skin crawling, so she disengaged her skirt from the man’s grip. His hand flailed, then gripped Morgan’s, and, with unexpected strength, he pulled his enemy down to stare into his face. Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. He gazed into Morgan’s eyes, and Pen nearly drew back at the exultation she saw there.

“I was shriven before I came to this cursed land,” he whispered to Morgan. “So you haven’t robbed me of my place in heaven. God … God will reward me for my work against heresy.” Lips quivering, Jean-Paul smiled at them. “His Holiness has given me a dispensation.”

“You think God will welcome you?” Pen asked in disbelief. “No man, even the bishop of Rome, can dispense for murder.”

Jean-Paul never left off his transfixed stare at Morgan. “I’ve already seen to it that I’ll be avenged upon you and
your witch, upon all of you who interfered. When he comes, remember me.” His hand clutched at the neck of Morgan’s doublet as his throat rattled. “Remember me …”

Pen strained to hear more, but all she caught was a faint hiss. All sense left Jean-Paul’s frenzied gaze. Those brown-black eyes stared up at her without sight. She looked away as Morgan passed his hand over the lids to shut them. Shuddering, she leaned against Morgan, now suddenly reacting to the battle. Her entire body trembled as she realized how near Morgan had come to losing his life. And yet Morgan seemed almost calm.

“Jesu,” he muttered. He squeezed her against his body. “If he’d killed you, I don’t-”

Through the murk of horror that had engulfed her, Pen heard the way Morgan stopped himself. She scraped together the dregs of her composure, for she wanted to throw herself against this man and weep into his neck. Swallowing the knot in her throat, she straightened and got to her feet. She drew a deep breath and stood alone with all the determination of her soul.

“A near calamity, my lord, but I thank God we’re all alive.”

He was looking at her so strangely. His voice dropped and grew rough.

“You saved my life. You risked your own to do it.”

Was that wonder she heard, or disbelief?

He reached for her. “Let’s have done with this pretense, Pen.”

She stepped out of reach and headed for Dibbler.

“What pretense?”

Kneeling beside her captain of the guards, she examined the cut he was trying to bind. She heard Morgan swear, but he busied himself with tying up Jean-Paul’s
guards. She kept herself from bursting into tears by caring for her men and keeping Sniggs and Dibbler from blaming each other for not stopping Jean-Paul.

Sniggs moaned. “Let us begone, mistress. There be ghosts of unholy heathens about this place.”

She and Morgan spoke little as they prepared to leave, except once, when he ordered her to say nothing about his vision at the standing stones. If she hadn’t been so distraught, she would have laughed. What need was there to warn her of the dangers of revealing such an experience? To her it was a sign from God that Morgan had been brought to Penance for a purpose. What that purpose might be other than to make her existence a misery, she couldn’t see. However, Morgan seemed most reluctant to explore the experience, and she feared to do so as well.

The journey back to Highcliffe was slow due to the wounded and the prisoners. By the time Pen had disposed of the injured men, Morgan had shut the guards in the cells in the Saint’s Tower. He had Jean-Paul’s body interred in a temporary grave at the village church. If the priest wasn’t already in hell, he was writhing at the thought of being stuck in among so many English heretics.

Pen wondered what would be done with Jean-Paul, for she couldn’t imagine Morgan writing to the Cardinal of Lorraine saying, Your Eminence, I’ve just killed your emissary; please send someone for his body. Or, could she? Morgan was far less gentle and peaceloving than Tristan. Mayhap, after all, she could imagine him doing something that brazen.

Whatever his plans, she was certain he would design them without a thought for her opinion. Exhausted, lower in spirit than at any time since she’d lost Tristan, Pen retreated to her chamber, bathed, and crawled
into bed as the gray haze of dawn washed over the island with the promise of morning.

She slept until late the next afternoon, and woke to the sinking sun’s long shadows that cast a golden pall over the castle. Nany brought the news that Morgan’s ship had returned, having weathered the squall with little damage. As Nany helped her dress, she looked out on the castle rooftops, the wall walk, the dovecote. Wheedle strolled across the bailey behind a troop of pigs. She could hear the gentle purring of birds from the dovecote.

Like an anvil dropped from a belfry, her spirits plummeted. So short a time ago she’d loved her life among the ragtags and buffoons of Highcliffe. Why, even Ponder Cutwell had been something of an enjoyment. His latest folly had been to send yet another marriage offer as soon as she’d returned from England. Now, not even the thought of yanking Cutwell’s tail could bring relief from this heartbroken misery. She went to another window and glanced down at the castle garden, almost bare of greenery.

A door in the garden wall opened, and Twistle walked between the rows of herb beds with a basket on her arm. It was full of bright green holly. Holly. December and the holy season was almost upon them. Usually she served as her own Lord of Misrule, for no one conducted the riotous merriment and mumming so well as she. This year she would appoint another. This year there was no merriment in her soul.

Her eyes stung. She hastily wiped them, muttering to herself.

“Enough, Penelope, my good woman. Enough of feeling pity for yourself. What an indulgence, and a weakness. What if Morgan sees you? Saints, do you want him to know the truth?”

Her hands were cold and stiff. She rubbed them together, then clasped them in front of her and gave herself a long rebuke. Hadn’t she seen how determined Morgan was to torment her? A man accustomed to the idolatry of women, he’d been only amused and challenged by her refusal to bend to his will. Perverse, evil creature. He admitted he didn’t love her, but he felt entitled to use her for his own gratification. How many women had he treated in like manner?

She hadn’t forgotten Lord Montfort’s comment about all those English gentlewomen. And Lady Ann. And Maria.

The lascivious, harlot-chasing debaucher. Pen’s anger flared. Its blessed fire warmed the chill in her bones brought on by sorrow. She took comfort in the heat, for it submerged her pain and enabled her to think of facing the world outside her chamber—and Morgan.

What she needed was a device, a plan by which she could hasten Morgan’s departure before she broke and crumbled at his feet in abject grief. For she sensed within herself a brittleness, a fragility that couldn’t long withstand his presence. Each time he looked at her with that gaze of black fire, each time he engaged in that sinuous dance that made his more than a simple walk—each time, she endured such pain that she thought someone was jabbing her heart with a stiletto.

He moved as he did apurpose. He moved like a hawk gliding over fields searching for innocent, plump mice—with practiced and deliberate skill. If he remained much longer, she would go mad dwelling upon how he’d gained his lover’s skills. She would begin to wonder about those gentlewomen and why they waited for him so eagerly. The wondering would lead to imaginings, and those imaginings would drive her into a frenzy. She might even scream at Morgan and demand to know who
Lady Ann was, and Maria as well.
She might succumb to him
.