Warrior's Lady (27 page)

When they reached the far side, Leyla dismounted. Lifting her skirts in one hand, she walked up to the huge beast, a wistful smile playing over her face as the dragon lowered its huge head.

Jarrett drew a deep breath as Dragora gently nudged her shoulder. The dragon’s bright-yellow eyes closed as Leyla scratched the hollow beneath its ears.

“Farewell, my old friend,” Leyla whispered. “Guard my homeland well.”

Dragora snorted softly, a faint puff of white smoke issuing from its blood-red nostrils.

“Farewell,” Leyla said again, and then she turned away, hurrying toward her horse. Climbing into the saddle, she urged Dusault down the long path lined with fire-blackened trees and charred skeletons. She never looked back.

That final goodbye affected Jarrett more deeply than anything else.

Chapter Thirty-One

They traveled by night, seeing no one along the way. After crossing the Cyrus River, they made their way to the coast, where Jarrett hired a ship to take them to Aldane.

Soon he would know if Rorke had spoken the truth, if his mother still lived.

Jarrett and Leyla said but little during the short voyage across the sea. Jarrett was preoccupied with thoughts of his mother, of seeing his uncle Morrad again. He had not seen his father’s brother for twelve years. Morrad was a large man, with hair as red as flame and eyes as hard and brown as hickorywood. He ruled his kingdom with a firm but fair hand. And his wife and six sons as well.

Jarrett led the horses down the gangplank, helped Leyla onto the back of her horse and then they were riding south, toward Morrad Castle.

Leyla watched the passing countryside with a sense of awe. Aldane was a beautiful land, lush and green, with rolling hills and gentle swales. Great stands of timber grew on the hills; flowers bloomed in bright profusion, there were lakes and streams without number. She saw herds of cattle and long-haired ponies, flocks of gentlesheep and curly-haired goats.

They rode for several hours, pausing now and then to refresh themselves from the stores her father had packed.

It was late afternoon when she spied Morrad Castle looming in the distance. It was a formidable-looking fortress. As they drew nearer, she saw a score of armed men guarding the entrance to the castle. Other men patrolled the catwalks and bastions.

Jarrett reined his horse to a halt and identified himself to the captain of the guard. A runner was dispatched into the keep to see if Morrad would receive visitors.

“Is Aldane at war?” Leyla asked as she glanced around.

“I don’t know,” Jarrett replied. “But something must be wrong.”

A short time later, the runner returned. “You may enter, Jarrett of Gweneth. The High Lord of Aldane awaits you in the West Hall.”

“My thanks,” Jarrett replied.

The captain of the guard edged his horse beside Jarrett’s. “Your sword, my Lord.”

“What?”

“I will take your sword. No one is allowed to enter the castle bearing arms.”

Jarrett hesitated a moment, then surrendered his sword.

The sound of their horses’ hooves clattering over the cobblestones echoed the hammering of Leyla’s heart. She had a feeling that something was gravely amiss within the castle, a premonition that death awaited them within its walls.

“Jarrett…”

“I know,” he said, his gaze meeting hers. “I feel it too.”

There were a dozen armed guards at the entrance to the keep and guards at each door they passed.

Jarrett pressed his right arm against his side, reassured by the presence of the knife beneath his loose-fitting shirt. A second knife rested securely within his left boot.

The guards stationed at the door of the West Hall came to attention as Jarrett and Leyla approached.

Jarrett hesitated only a moment and then, holding Leyla’s hand in his, he crossed the polished hardwood floor toward the dais, his gaze fixed on the man who sat on the elaborately carved wooden throne.

“Rorke.”

“Welcome, my Lord Jarrett. I’ve been expecting you. Your mother will be here shortly.”

Jarrett’s hand tightened on Leyla’s. “Where’s my uncle?”

Rorke uttered a low sound of distress. “No longer with us, I’m afraid.”

“And his men?”

“Those who refused to swear allegiance to the crown were executed. The rest now wear my colors.”

“I see.” Jarrett glared at Rorke. The man spoke of killing so easily. “Is Darrla here with you?”

“Not yet.”

“And Tyrell?”

“He has returned to Heth.” A cold smile twisted Rorke’s lips. “He is in poor health. I’m afraid he will not see another winter.”

Jarrett grunted softly. It all made sense now. Rorke had gone to Cornith, intending to dispose of the King, but after learning that Tyrell was ill, he had decided to wait. Why take a risk, however slight, of being caught trying to poison the King, when he was already dying? In a few short months, Darrla would take the throne and Rorke would be her consort, for as long as she lived. Knowing Rorke, it would not be long, and then his oldest son Jerrain would become King and Rorke would at last have the power he craved. There was just one thing he didn’t understand.

“Why did you make war on Aldane?”

“I did not. Morrad attacked the Fenduzian coast in the dead of winter. I was sent to meet his forces. He was killed in battle. His wife and sons fled.”

“Jeri!”

He turned at the sound of his mother’s voice, opened his arms to embrace her as she flew at him. He choked back tears of relief as he held her close. He had not thought to see her again.

When he could let her go, Sherriza embraced Leyla. “My dear, you look well.” Sherriza held Leyla at arm’s length, her gaze running over her daughter-in-law’s swollen belly. “When is the child due?”

“In late summer.”

“This reunion is very touching, to be sure,” Rorke said in a bored tone. “Could you, perhaps, save it for later?”

“What are your plans now?” Jarrett asked.

“The same as before. To have Greyebridge.”

“You have Aldane. You’ll soon have the throne. Why do you need Greyebridge as well?”

“Because it’s yours.”

“You’ll never have it!” Sherriza exclaimed. “I’ll see it torn down, stone by stone, first.”

“Spare me your threats, madam.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t taken Greyebridge by now,” Jarrett remarked.

“All in good time,” Rorke replied with a wave of his hand.

He looked enormously pleased with himself, Jarrett thought, but then, why shouldn’t he? Everything seemed to be going his way.

“Greyebridge isn’t going anywhere,” Rorke went on, “and neither are you. In any case, I have had other, more urgent matters to take care of.”

“What of Leyla and my mother?”

“I believe we discussed that before.”

“Let them go.”

“I think not. But I will give you my promise that no harm will befall them in exchange for your signed confession stating that you did indeed conspire with Aldane against Tyrell.”

Jarrett frowned. “To what end?”

“Can you not guess?”

Jarrett nodded. “I would have thought you’d be content to take my life, Rorke. Would you have my honor, as well?”

“Exactly so.”

Jarrett kept his expression impassive, refusing to let Rorke have the satisfaction of seeing how deeply the idea of being thought a traitor disturbed him, and then he shrugged. What difference would a signed confession make? Those who knew him would know it for the lie it was. He didn’t care what others thought.

“How soon?”

“On the morrow, I think, just after dawn. There is a deep pool behind the mews that should serve our purpose.”

A gasp escaped Leyla’s lips as the meaning of Rorke’s words washed over her, and then she slid to the floor, her face as white as wool.

Jarrett dropped to his knees beside her and gathered her into his arms. “Leyla. Leyla!”

Her eyelids fluttered open. Upon seeing Jarrett, she threw her arms around his neck and held him close. He spoke so calmly of dying. Didn’t he know she could not live without him?

Jarrett rose to his feet, cradling Leyla to his chest. “I need a room for my wife.”

“Taark will see to her. You and I still have much to discuss.”

“I will take her to her room and make sure she is comfortable, and then I will return.”

Rorke’s fingers caressed the polished arm of the throne for several seconds, then he nodded.

“Very well. Do not be long. Take the first chamber at the top of the stairs.”

With a curt nod, Jarrett left the hall. Refusing to think of anything but Leyla’s safety and comfort, he carried her up the stairs and into the room Rorke had indicated.

After closing the door, Jarrett stood Leyla on her feet and began to undress her.

She placed her hand over his, forcing him to stop. “Jarrett, what are we going to do?”

“You’re going to get into bed, and then I’m going down to talk with Rorke.”

“He means to have Greyebridge and the throne.”

“Aye.” He took her hand from his and continued undressing her until she stood before him in only her shift. His eyes caressed her and then he bent and placed a kiss on her breast, just over her heart.

“Jarrett…”

“There is nothing to be said, Leyla.” Sweeping her into his arms, he carried her to the bed and drew the covers up to her chin. “Rest now.”

“Thee expects me to rest when thy life is in danger?”

“I am safe enough, for now. Please, Leyla, think of the child.”
The child I will never live to see.

“Jarrett, I’m afraid.”

“I know.”

Her throat tightened with unshed tears as he kissed her, his lips achingly sweet. He placed his hand on her swollen abdomen, gave her a smile that made her heart melt, and left the room.

Four guards waited outside the door. Three had their swords drawn.

Jarrett thought briefly of putting up a fight, but even if he killed all four guards, he would never get out of the castle alive. As long as he lived, there was still hope, and with that thought in mind, he offered no resistance as the guard stripped him of his weapons, then quickly tied his hands behind his back.

Giving him a shove, the guard said, “Lord Rorke’s waiting.”

Followed by the four men, Jarrett returned to the West Hall.

Rorke had been pacing the floor. At Jarrett’s entrance, he resumed his place on the throne.

“You cannot win, Jarrett,” he said, waving the guards aside. “You will do as I say, or your mother and your wife will suffer for it.”

Jarrett choked back the angry words that rose in his throat, knowing that Rorke was right. There was nothing he could do, not now. “Where is my mother?”

“In one of the rooms belowstairs.”

“Your promise, Rorke, I want your promise, sworn on your mother’s life, that no harm will come to my mother or Leyla. Or to my child.”

Rorke let out a sigh. “Very well.”

Jarrett drew a deep breath. “What are your plans for me?”

“Can you not guess?”

Hands tightly clenched, Jarrett nodded once, slowly. Thanks to Tor’s mental powers, Rorke knew of Jarrett’s deep-seated fear of the pool. “Until then?”

“The dungeons, of course. I cannot take a chance of your escaping again.”

“I want to stay with Leyla until the baby comes.”

“No. You will die in the pool tomorrow, as I said. Slowly. Painfully.”

Jarrett fought down a rising tide of panic. “I will sign nothing until after the child is born.”

It was a weak threat, a last endeavor to buy a little more time. His only hope was that Rorke wanted his confession of guilt badly enough to postpone his death.

Rorke stood up, his hands clenched, his face mottled with rage.

“I would remind you that you are in no position to dictate terms, my Lord Jarrett. You will do as I say, or I will have your mother beheaded before your eyes, and the child cut from your wife’s body!”

“Then do it!”

Rorke took a step back, his eyes mirroring his astonishment. “You doubt me?”

“No.”

Dropping to his knees, Jarrett gazed up at Rorke, his eyes blazing with impotent fury, his face burning with humiliation.

“You will soon have everything you desire, everything that I have ever loved. I am begging you to send my mother home, to let me spend my last days with my woman, to see my child. It will cost you nothing. I give you my word as a warrior that I will not try to escape. I will sign whatever papers you wish once the child is born, only let me see my son before I die.”

Rorke stared at the man kneeling before him. Never, in all his life, had he expected to find Jarrett of Gweneth groveling at his feet. It was a good feeling. Perhaps he was being overzealous in his eagerness to see the man dead. It would do no harm to let him live another few months. Indeed, the anticipation of the actual event would only make Jarrett’s death that much sweeter.

Rorke grinned. And Jarrett’s death would be that much more bitter, much harder to accept, once Jarrett had seen his child, held it in his arms. Ah, how much more painful to go to his grave knowing he would never see the child again.

“Very well,” Rorke agreed, “but I warn you now that should you make any attempt to escape, should you disobey me once, your mother will pay the ultimate price. I will keep her here to ensure your obedience.”

“I believe you.”

“I hope so. I will allow you four hours a day with your woman. You will be confined to the dungeon the rest of the time.”

“You are most generous, my lord.”

Rorke summoned Taark with a wave of his hand. “Take my Lord Jarrett to the dungeon. He is to have no visitors. You will see that he is taken to his wife’s room for no more than four hours each day. His mother will be given suitable quarters, and she is to be given anything she requires for her comfort. Tomorrow you will ride to the village and find a midwife.”