Temptress (16 page)

Isa’s fingers rubbed furiously at the stone dangling from her neck, but the horrifying vision didn’t disappear. Nor did it congeal into something she could understand. Her face splintered and she saw only pieces of the changing images, shards of pictures that drove fear straight to her soul:

A small dagger slicing downward.

The wicked blade flashing silver in the moonless night.

Blood. Oozing over the sides of the bowl.

And the crest of Wybren floating in the thick, red water beneath her own startled expression.

And then the god of death looking over her shoulder, his hard face so close that she turned quickly, knocking over the candle, causing the water within the bowl to slop.

Her heart knocked so loudly she was certain Arawn of the underworld was in the room with her.

But there was nothing.

Just darkness.

And the promise of death.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“
F
orgive me, Heavenly Father, for I have sinned.” Father Daniel bowed low, his head nearly touching the stone floor of the apse, the rushes brushing his face. Closing his eyes, he tried to concentrate, but the fire in his blood ran hot even now. Though he’d tried to fight temptation and had prayed for relief, wanton images flickered through his mind, robbing him of sleep, making his words catch in his throat as he tried to speak. Even his prayers were interrupted by sinful thoughts.

Of women.

Morwenna and Bryanna. The tall older sister with her dark hair, regal stance, and imperious stare was as seductive as the younger one with her bright eyes, riot of reddish curls, and low, sensual laugh.

He imagined himself bedding them, singly and together, and the erotic images that seared his brain wouldn’t leave him alone. ’Twas as if he were in a hell of his own making. Aye, that was it; Satan had somehow slipped into his mind. He closed his eyes and his body shook with a need so violent it frightened him.

Mayhap He already has, Daniel thought desperately, his hands curling into fists, clenching over the straw and herbs of the rushes.

“Please, Father, forgive me and help me. I have had lust in my heart,” he admitted, his head bowed before the crucifix. But even now his restless mind wandered to the women, such beautiful, tempting creatures. “And . . . and my body betrays me. My thoughts are impure. I see the lady and her sister and I . . . I . . . fall victim to being mortal. I fight the urges, but, Father, please help me.” Tears burned at the back of his eyes, for he knew that prayer alone would not atone for his sins.

He needed to be punished.

“Help me banish all lust from my mind and my body,” he prayed, his voice catching, tears drizzling from the corners of his eyes. Oh, he was weak. Pathetically so.

In despair, he made the sign of the cross. He had started to rise when he heard something, the scrape of a boot, nearby. As if someone had been in the chapel with him.

His heart clutched as he thought of his desperate prayers. They were for God’s ears only.

Awash with embarrassment, he glanced over his shoulder and found the door to the outside ajar, perhaps pushed open by the wind—the latch was forever broken. Mayhap it was nothing. But the hairs on the backs of his arms lifted and he thought he heard, over the rush of wind, the sound of retreating footsteps. He pulled himself to his feet. Had someone been listening at the doorway? Had whoever it was heard his guilt-riddled confession?

Without wasting a second, he made his way to the door and stepped outside. The night was raw and bitter, the wind fierce enough to cut through his cloak, the slanting rain so cold it was nearly ice.

Tossing up his hood, he bent against the wind and followed the main path leading through the garden. No one was visible, but the gate was open, banging in the wind as if someone had been in too much of a hurry to secure the latch. Who? Had someone been spying upon him?

He flew over the flagstones and into the inner bailey, where, because of the weather, few men were gathered, only a few guards at their posts and Dwynn, who, hat pulled down nearly over his eyes, was carrying a basket filled with firewood toward the great hall.

“You there,” Father Daniel called, his boots sliding on the mud as he caught up with the younger man. Dwynn halted, rainwater dripping from his hat’s brim. “Did you see anyone enter the chapel a few minutes ago?”

“Nay, Father.” The half-wit shook his head quickly but hitched his heavy basket with surprising ease and started for the great hall again.

“No one?”

“Just the guards.”

“Here, let me help you,” the priest offered, more to have a chance at conversation with the man than to ease his burden. Rain was peppering the ground, splashing in puddles, blowing sideways. “You’re certain no one hurried outside—from the garden there?” Daniel pointed toward the open gate.

“Who was it?” Dywnn asked.

“What? Oh, I don’t know, but I believe someone was in the chapel and ran outside. This way.” Daniel peered through the driving rain and thought he saw a shadow, a figure, disappear along the path leading to the stable, but as he blinked the rain from his eyes, the image vanished.

“Then he left if he’s not still there,” Dwynn reasoned.

“What?”

“Whoever was in the chapel. Didn’t you say there was someone there?” Dwynn asked, his eyebrows slamming together as if he was trying to concentrate. The poor half-wit was absolutely maddening. “Alfrydd, he wants the wood,” Dwynn continued.

“ ’Tis a sin to lie, Dwynn. You know that.” The priest was firm.

“Aye, Father.” Dwynn’s steps didn’t so much as falter.

“And God, He hears everything. Not just prayers.”

No response.

’Twas impossible. Either the man didn’t understand or wouldn’t reply. They were near the back entrance of the great hall now. “God would not like it if you lied, Dwynn. He would punish you.”

Dwynn shouldered open the kitchen door and nodded as he passed through. “He punishes all, Father. Every one of us.”

That He does,
Daniel thought morosely as he glanced upward to the windows on the third floor where Lady Morwenna and Lady Bryanna had their private chambers. Sleeting rain fell upon his upturned face and yet it did nothing to dampen the rage burning in his soul.

 

Sir Vernon wrapped his mantle more tightly around his torso. ’Twas a night not fit for man nor beast, and yet he stood outside, huddled against the sleet that had started to spit from the dark sky. Slowly, head bent, he walked from one corner of the curtain wall to the next tower. He stamped his feet loudly as they seemed frozen within his boots. Though he’d told himself he would never sip from his small jug again while on duty, tonight he ignored his promise to himself. It was just too damned buggery cold not to have a nip of mead to warm his belly.

“Hell’s bells,” he growled as he took a long tug and felt the warmth burn its way down his throat. He let out a belch and, satisfied for a while, slipped the jug back into its hiding spot deep in a cranny he’d found in one of the walls of the east tower.

From his vantage point, Vernon looked down upon the inner bailey, where only a few fires glowed in the huts huddled along the base of the walls. All was quiet. Serene, had it not been for the blasted sleet. His gaze swept past the inner gate to the outer bailey, a much larger piece of land still surrounded by these thick walls. All there seemed as it should, no dark shadows stealing across the yellowed winter grass. No gang of thugs collected near the well nor in the orchard. Listening, he heard only a few grunts from the pigs pushing each other aside as they settled in for the night and the creak and swish of the windmill as its sails turned in the same breeze that rattled the bare branches of the trees in the orchard.

All was well on this moonless winter night. He thought about another sip from his jug, but then decided to wait. It was hours yet until morn and he should save his precious mead. He blew on his gloved hands and turned toward the south tower.

Something moved in the watch turret.

“Blimey.” What the devil was that? Another guard? Who was posted there this evening? Geoffrey? Or Hywell? Or . . . Vernon squinted and started walking quickly along the east wall. Sleet peppered his face, and a bit of apprehension crawled up his back, but his eyes were trained on the dark figure that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.

Whoever it was had his back to Vernon and was staring through the crenels. “You there,” Vernon yelled, reaching for the hilt of his sword as he closed the distance between them. “What’re ye doin’ up here?”

The dark figure turned, still hidden in the shadowy battlements, his face concealed deep in his cowl. “Brother Thomas?” he guessed, for the man was wearing the guise of a monk. Vernon hurried forward, glad for the company, any company, though it was believed the hermit of the keep, Thomas, was mad. “Ye’re a far piece from yer room,” Vernon admonished gently as he neared the other man. “Needin’ some fresh air, are ye?” He didn’t blame the solitary monk. Who could stay in a single room, praying and lying prostate, seeing no one save the serving boys who brought up porridge and water and took away the buckets of excrement? God in heaven, what a life.

Vernon let go of his weapon. The old man was no threat and probably only looking for a little respite from his cramped quarters. “Er, Thomas,” he called, still several feet away, “I don’t know what yer vows are, but if ye’d like a nip or two, I’ve got me a jug in the tower back there. . . .” He hooked a thumb toward the east tower. “It could warm yer belly if not yer soul on a cold night like this one.”

Still the man did not speak and for a second Vernon thought he might have had his tongue cut from him long before. Perhaps as some kind of idiotic sacrifice. Vernon shivered at the thought and kept walking, and as the distance between them lessened, he dismissed his idea of self-mutilation. More likely Thomas had taken a vow of silence and would not break it. Not even for a drop of ale. Aye, that was it! Vernon was near the tower now and said, “Brother, I hope ye didna take offense at my offer. It’s just so bloody cold tonight.”

The man stepped forward, offering his hand.

Vernon smiled, glad for whatever company the monk could provide. “Aye, it’s a night not fit fer Lucifer himself,” he said, bridging the small distance between them.

A bit of a grin flashed white in the darkness.

The monk raised his arm quickly.

In the dim light Vernon recognized the weapon.

Small.

Curved.

Deadly.

“What the bloody hell!” Vernon scrabbled for his sword.

With surprising agility, the monk spun Vernon around.

The larger man twisted, but his boots slid on the icy wall walk.

In an instant, his attacker was upon him.

Fingers surrounding the hilt of his weapon, Vernon tried to unsheath his weapon and whirl around. But it was too late. He felt his head pulled back by the hair.

The dagger plunged downward.

Vernon’s scream died in his throat as the wicked little blade sawed into his thick throat in a jerky, uneven movement.

With a thud, Vernon fell, his head cracking against the merlon. Then, light-headed, he gazed at his murderer helplessly, recognized him but was unable to scream as his lifeblood seeped onto the cold, flat stones of the wall walk.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“
L
ady Morwenna! Please open the door. ’Tis I, Isa!”

Morwenna groaned and opened her eyes. The dog beside her gave up a soft growl.

“Coming!” Morwenna called, reaching for her tunic as the dog roused and barked. A headache pounded in her skull and her eyes felt as if they had sand in them. “Don’t start,” she admonished him as she padded to the door, then flung it open. “Why are you forever beating against my door in the middle of the night?” she demanded, still cranky as she’d slept little since her visit to Carrick’s room.

At the thought of her visit, she felt color rise up her neck, for as she’d lifted the coverlet, she’d seen . . .

“Something is horribly amiss,” Isa insisted, and her old eyes were round with worry, her face as pale as a ghost, her lips bloodless.

“What? What is wrong?” Morwenna was instantly awake though her head still throbbed from lack of sleep.

Isa slipped into the room and shut the door as the dog growled low before settling onto the bed again. The room was cold, the fire having died in the few hours since Morwenna had flung herself onto the bed in anger and despair.

Isa’s voice, as she spoke, was a low whisper, as if she was afraid that the very walls had ears. “There is death, m’lady. Death here.” She jabbed a finger at the floor. “Within the walls of Calon.”

Morwenna’s skin crawled. “Death? Nay, Isa.”

“Yes!” Isa hissed. “Tonight.”

“Whose?”

“I know not.”

“What do you mean?” Morwenna’s eyes thinned suspiciously. And yet she could not shake the sense of dread that Isa’s words had brought.
Carrick! Someone has killed him
. “Tell me,” she demanded.

“I was . . . I was asking for protection from the Great Mother—”

“Casting a spell?”

“Nay! Only praying.”

“Not practicing any of your magic? You know how Father Daniel feels about—”

Isa’s fingers surrounded Morwenna’s wrist in a clawlike grip. “Hear me out, child,” she ordered, as if she were again the nursemaid and Morwenna her young charge. “
I saw death tonight
. Here. In this keep. By someone’s hand. Mark my words, Morwenna, there has been a murder in this castle.”