“You think a threat will change him?” she mocked.
“Would you rather stay here?” A challenge flamed in his eyes.
“Never!” she lied, feeling torn between two homes, the castle, with its secure walls and comforts, and the forest, where she felt free even though she was held captive.
“So be it.” He searched the faces of his men as Megan’s heart turned to ice. “We’ll wait here for Cormick and Bjorn’s return, then send Lady Megan home, break camp, and move on.”
“Bring in the new log,” Holt ordered, his face flushed from wine, as peasants and knights guided a huge horse into the hall and rolled the log onto the iron dogs in the fireplace, sending ash and embers flying. Sparks and laughter erupted as Holt lit the new log and watched the dry wood catch fire.
Shouts of “wassail” and “drinkhaile!” floated over the songs being played by the musicians in the gallery, an alcove cut high into the wall facing the lord’s table, where Holt sat near a comely seamstress.
The Christmas revels were upon them, the great hall decorated with ivy, holly, and mistletoe, and peasants, knights, servants, and lords all rejoicing. Holt had decreed that there would be merriment in the halls of Dwyrain despite the fact that his wife was missing and the tired old baron was hovering near death.
“If only Lord Ewan could see this,” Rue whispered to Cayley as she wiped her hands on her skirt and tapped her foot in time with the drummer. They stood near the stairs, where pages and servants hurried to and from the kitchen. “ ’Tis a pity he can’t join us.” Sadness stole through her old eyes.
“Aye, I think I’ll take something up to him. Cook’s saved him a joint of venison and some pheasant, along with his soup.”
“A good daughter ye are, Cayley girl,” Rue said, slipping back to the name she’d called Cayley when she was but a child.
Not as good as you think, Cayley thought as she hurried to the kitchen and carried a tray to her father’s room. But the baron didn’t move when she entered. The tempo of his breathing never wavered, and even though she spoke to him, he remained blissfully asleep, unaware that there was treachery within the castle walls, that Megan had not been found, that the outlaw roamed free. Nay, her father was probably dreaming of happier times when the family was together and his wife and all his children were alive.
“Sleep well,” Cayley said, pressing a kiss to his temple and adding more heavy logs to the fire in his room. She tore off big hunks of the meat, wrapped the greasy chunks in a towel, poured wine into his cup, and took the bottle. Her heart thudding in fear at her plan, she left his tray at his bedside and knew that he would eat no more than a few spoonfuls of broth and drink even less wine. Once a robust man, he had wasted to nearly nothing. Something had to be done, and Cayley, though she cringed at the thought, was the only one to do it. Whereas Megan had always leaped at adventure, had ridden as well as Bevan and shot an arrow straight and true, Cayley had been content to be considered silly and pampered, enjoying the attention of men and pretending that she was helpless.
Ofttimes her mother had reprimanded her, telling her that she was lazy and needed to work some around the castle. Lady Violet had insisted that her daughter learn how to embroider, keep the books, and care for the
poor by passing out alms—money and any uneaten food in the castle. Violet had even dragged Cayley with her to the nunnery, hoping her second daughter would take an interest in some charity, but Cayley, at that time in her life, had been interested only in herself. She’d seen no reason to do for herself when others, be they friends, relatives, or servants, were willing to do for her.
“Stupid girl,” she told herself now, for she had no skills on which to rely and few friends to help her. Oh, if only Gwayne were here, but that thought was not as comforting as it had once been. She’d heard nothing more of his betrothal, but she saw him in a different light and what she had once considered clever, now she thought mean. He was vain and pompous. In all the while he’d courted her, he’d never once spoken of love or marriage.
Well, she had not the time to be thinking of him. She had much to do. Gritting her teeth and wishing she’d taken the time to learn how, if nothing else, to handle a weapon, she set her plan into motion. She’d have to rely upon her wits rather than swords, axes, and arrows. She stopped at her chamber to don her hooded cloak, ducked through the corridor, and was relieved to find no guards at their posts.
Darting down the stairs, her cloak billowing behind her, she slipped through the kitchen and out the door.
The sound of music from lutes and pipes followed Cayley as she held her skirt high and ran. Her boots sank in the mud and mire as she crossed the inner bailey to the north tower, under which were the dungeons.
“Be with me,” she prayed, her voice the barest of whispers as she opened the door to the guardhouse. Curved stairs led ever downward. In the darkness, rats scurried from her path. She carried only a solitary candle, its flickering light reflecting on the cold stone walls, which always appeared wet. The smells of rotting straw, mildew, and urine rose from the dungeon, nearly choking her. The guards, too, were in the keep, their sorry charges left alone in the dank cavern, which held the enemies of Dwyrain.
Shuddering, Cayley made her way down slippery steps and past cells, where eyes gleamed at her from within the gloom.
“Who goes there?” one raspy voice asked.
“ ’Tis the lady.” Another, deeper, voice.
“What lady? Violet?”
“Nay, she’s been dead two or three years. ’Tis her daughter.”
“A comely wench, say what?”
“Sorcerer?” Cayley said, her voice thinner than usual, a tremor running through it. “Are you here?”
“So you’ve come.” His voice was smooth as the ice that sometimes covered the lake in coldest winter.
“Aye.”
She walked on, holding her candle aloft, trying to keep her wits about her when she imagined all sorts of vile creatures swooping out of the darkness at her.
“Good. I have much to say.”