The High Sheriff of Huntingdon (25 page)

The
moon
hung
high
overhead,
and
courtyard was deserted, shrouded
in shadow. Elspeth moved swiftly
and silently
a
l
o
n
g the wall of
the
keep,
running
one
hand against
the rough
surface
to
guide
her way.
She passed no
one
but
a
cat
intent on
his
round
of night hunting, and for a
moment
she
th
o
u
gh
t
of her husband,
a sleek
black
cat looking
for
a
juicy white
mouse.
He
wouldn’t
find
her,
not
if she could help
it. No
one
would
find
her
deep
in
the
heart
of Dunstan
Woods.
She
could hide
there
forever,
and be
safe.

The smoke
was billowing
forth,
filling Morgana’s
rheumy old
eyes, making
her blink furiously.
There
were no
tears, o
f
course. Witches
cannot
cry.

She stirred,
tossing
a squirrel’s
tail
into
her
loathsome
brew,
muttering
beneath her
breath in
a cheery
little
singsong.

White and
black they
sh
all combine

Pure
as snow, as
blood-red wine

Flame and fire destroy them both

Death and rebirth, blood
their
troth

In thunder, rain, brought right again

And all shall be as God’s design.

Mor
g
an
a
took
a sip
of the broth, shuddering
with
pleasure. “God’s
d
es
i
g
n
,
bah,”
s
he
muttered.
“This is no
curse
of
mine.
B
r
i
n
g
me my
daughter-in-law.
B
ri
n
g
her to Dunstan
W
o
o
ds
.
Bring
her
to
me.”
And the
smoke
whirled
upward, giving
her the
answer
she sought.

4

Alistair
Darcourt
was
in
a
t
o
w
e
r
i
n
g
rage.
When he
finally
staggered
to
his
feet,
blood
still seeping from the cut
on
his cheek,
his
fury
was so
overwhelming
that
he
thought he
m
i
g
ht explode.

“De Lancey!” he bellowed, stumbling
toward
the
winding stairs.

“I’m here, cousin
.
”
De
Lancey’s cool voice came
from the
doorway. “Where’s
your
bride?”

Alistair
glared at
him, won
d
ering whether he might
vent some
of his
r
a
g
e
by pummeling his
sly
cousin into repentance. “Wipe
that
smug smile o
ff
your face,
Gilles,”
he
snarled.
“I’ll
deal
with
you later. Unless
you can tell me you’ve already
managed
to
stop
her.”

“I’ve seen no sign of her,” De Lancey said.
“Nor
her
maid.”

“Saddle
my
horse.”
Alistair
spat
the words, yanking on h
i
s
black
shirt,
ignoring
the
blood on
his cheek.

“I’ll
go
after
he
r…”
De Lancey began,
but
the
sher
iff
cut
him off.

“She’s
mine,” he
said. “And by God, she’ll learn
that
before the
night
is
out.
I
want no man touching her
but
me.”

“It’s late. You’ll need help,”
Gilles protested.

Alistair’s
smile
was
chilling.
“I have all the help I’ll need,”
he
said,
and
once more
Gilles crossed himself
in
superstitious
terror.
“Get
my horse
ready.”

De
Lancey raced
down the winding
tower stairs, and
Alistair
followed
him,
his black shirt flapping
as he
stormed
into the deserted courtyard.

“Where
is she?” he howled
t
o
the night
air.

There
w
a
s
no
answer.

De Lancey
appeared,
leading
the sheriff’s huge
gray
gelding. Alistair
leaped onto
the
back
of t
h
e horse
and
wh
eeled around
in
the
courtyard,
almost
trampling
his
cousin
in his passionate fury.
A
moment
later
he’d raced
from
the castle yard and out
into
the
windy
night, without
a
backward glance.

Elspeth ran
until
her breath caught
in
her chest,
and
still she
ran.
The
tree
branches
pulled
at
her
clothes,
tore at her
hair,
scratched
her pale
skin.
The wind had picked up,
tossing
the
huge,
a
n
c
i
en
t
trees overhead,
and
in
the distance
she
co
u
l
d
hear
the
faint call of
an owl.

Dunstan Wood
s
was no place for a woman
alone at night. She
had
heard
the stories
all her life. It
was no
for place for anyone unprotected from fa
e
ries and
creatures of the
dark. Demons lurked there, w
itches
and
trolls
and monsters
that stole
the
minds
of
innocents and left
them
witless,
that tore
flesh
into pieces and
left nothing but bones
and bits of
rag to
bear
witness
that
a mortal soul
had once
passed this way
.
Elspeth
refused
to panic. She
ran, her
bare
feet bleedin
g
,
her l
ong
hair flying
out
behind
her,
h
e
r
skirts tripping her up. The sheriff’s
cloak
was
slipping
from her
shoulders, and
she pulled
it
more
tightly about her,
fin
d
i
n
g
some odd
comfort
in
the rich black folds. Had
sh
e
killed him? Did
she
care?
If she
was
a
widow, her
problems
were now
solved—until
she
was hunted down and killed for the m
u
r
d
e
r of the
high
sheriff of
Huntingdon.

The
sky
was
dark
and fitful overhead, the
fun
full moon
dancing
behind
scudding clouds.
Elspeth sank down on
a
soft hillock, trying to catch her breath,
to still
her
panic.
She’d escaped Huntingdon Keep, where the greatest dan
ger
lay. Surely she was safer alone in
Dunstan
Woods
than in the
possession
of a
madman.
A
m
a
n
who now had
every reason
to want her dead.

Her father’s lands lay to the north
of the
vast,
sprawling wilderness,
and
he
and
his men had always
done
their
best
to skirt
the forest, leaving it to
the
creatures of
the
night
and
their
spawn.
It had belonged
to
her father, but
the
demons had
claimed
it long ago, those seen and unseen, and Sir
Hugh had
been
helpless to fight the
powers
of
darkness.
Indeed, her
father
had probably been just
as
happy
to
pass
it
over to Alistair Darcourt and let him deal
with
it.
A fitting
dowry for the son
of
the
devil.