“ ’Ere ye go,” the cook said, returning with a few coins. “And be sure to tell yer father thank ye from the baron ’imself. ’E’ll be pleased to know that ’is man Carter is a loyal servant.” She paused as she handed Sorcha the money. “What kind of ring is that?” she asked, eyeing Sorcha’s hand where the silver serpent was coiled.
“I know not. An old woman gave it to me mother. ’Twas passed on to me when me ma died.”
The cook’s brow furrowed, but one of her helpers cried out as she spilled grease on the fire and flames shot up to devour the roasting pig.
“God in heaven, you’re a fool, Nellie!” Ada scolded, her attention diverted. She motioned to Sorcha as she turned back to the fire pit. “You, girl, be on yer way.”
“Aye,” Sorcha replied, stuffing the coins into her pocket. “My father will be pleased to hear that Baron Hagan is returning,” she said quickly, and hurried outside. Head bent, she walked across the bailey, as if she intended to return through the gate, but once she was certain the fat cook’s back was turned, she veered sharply to the left and found a spot behind a manure cart, near the beehives and untended garden. No one was about, and Sorcha planned to hide in the shadow of the cart’s big wheels until supper.
From her hiding spot, she kept fairly dry as she watched the doorway to the kitchen, realizing that though Erbyn was thrice the size of Prydd, the work was the same: Girls tended chickens and ducks, boys split wood and mucked out the stables, the tinsmith tapped with his hammer, and the carpenters shored up a sagging doorway to a hut where candles were made. With a hollow feeling, Sorcha wondered if she’d ever run through the stone halls of Prydd again. Would she smell the sweet lilac-scented rushes, or sneak down to the creek where she swam in water so cold, her blood seemed to turn to ice? Soon, she told herself … as soon as Leah was safe.
Slowly the hours passed. Shortly after nightfall there was an increase in activity. Servants hauling water, or carrying goods from the bakery, or laden with firewood, hurried in and out the door to the kitchen.
It was time for her to sneak into Darton’s keep. The darkness would help conceal her, and everyone in the castle would be too busy to notice a strange servant boy. Or so she hoped.
She stashed her robe and long tunic behind the beehives, slipped her dagger into a sleeve, then, with her hair tucked in the cowl of her short tunic, she spotted a boy staggering under the weight of a bundle of firewood. “Let me ’elp ye with that, lad.”
“Nay. The cook—”
“ ’Tis too big a load. Asides, ’tis Christmas.”
Sorcha grabbed off the top half of the kindling and offered the boy a smile.
“ ’Tis kind ye are.”
She followed the boy into the kitchen, where the cook was busy slicing the boar’s head from its body and the other kitchen aids were pouring sauces and ladling gravies. Sorcha placed the kindling in the firebox, then, holding her breath, walked through the kitchen as if she had every right to enter the castle. In the hallway she turned right, toward the staircase leading upward to the lord’s chamber, which, Robert had explained, was being used by Darton while Lord Hagan was away.
Her heart thundering, she expected someone to yell at her. She stole quietly up the stairs, hardly believing her good luck as no one accosted her. Biting her lip, she let her dagger slide into her palm and sent up a prayer for Leah’s safety. She didn’t move. Hidden in the shadows in a recessed alcove that once had been used as a wardrobe, she wrapped her fingers around the hilt of her deadly little knife and waited.
Three
ir Hagan returns!”
The call echoed through the great hall and plunged a dagger of dread into Darton’s heart.
Sir Ives, who had made the announcement, looked as if he might faint. His face was a pasty white, and his sharp little tongue rimmed his lips nervously. Ives was a dullard who was ready to fall apart at the least little change in plan. Darton loathed him, as he detested most of the men whom he’d been able to turn against his brother. Disloyal mongrels, the lot of them, but necessary for Darton’s plans.
“Hagan returns?” Darton challenged as he hurried to the stairs, meeting Ives on the landing. “But I was given word that ’twould be two more days—”
“ ’Twas a false report. Hagan will be upon the gates of the castle within the hour. A scout has seen the baron.”
Darton’s fists clenched tightly. “Well, well, we’ll have to change our plans a bit, won’t we?” he said with more calm than he felt. He did not fear his brother; in truth, he was awaiting Hagan’s return, for the capture of Baron Eaton’s daughter was but part of a more intricate plan. Unfortunately he’d captured Leah rather than Sorcha and the timing was not yet right, but Darton was quick to alter his scheme accordingly. “See that my things are removed from Hagan’s room, and by all means put clean linens on his bed. Instruct the guard of Lady Leah that he is to let no one into her room. Not even the baron himself. No one is to know that she’s being held prisoner.”
“He’s sure to find out.”
“Yea, but not yet.” He grasped Sir Ives’s shoulder in his strong grip. “You are with me in this, are you not?”
Sir Ives knelt quickly and swore his fealty yet again. Darton smiled. “Good. Tell the men that they are to pretend they are still loyal to Hagan, for he must not suspect that anything is amiss.”
“As you wish, sire.”
Sir Ives marched quickly out of the solar. Inwardly Darton congratulated himself on his accomplishments. Hagan would be astonished when he found out that half the soldiers in the castle felt no allegiance to the baron, for they were men with wants of their own. Darton, while Hagan was off fighting those bastard Scots for the past few months, was providing well for the men.
Though Hagan had taken a dim view of wenching and drinking and gambling, Darton had encouraged his randy soldiers to find ways to release their energy. He’d staged wrestling matches, bearbaiting contests, and cockfights, and offered the soldiers all the wine and mead they could drink. As for the wenches, there were plenty of girls who would lift their skirts for a taste of wine and a few kind words. Some would even do more and were expert with their hands and mouths and tongues.
“I’ll greet my brother myself,” Darton decided, though he quickly swooped through the immense castle, going from room to room, making sure that everything looked just as it had on the day Hagan rode away all those months before.
All was well, and within the hour, the thunder of horses’ hooves announced Hagan’s arrival. A small evil smile crawled across Darton’s lips. He’d thought often of killing his brother outright and letting someone else, such as loyal Sir Ives, take the blame, but he couldn’t kill Hagan yet. No, he’d rather have Hagan twist in the wind a bit, know the depth of Darton’s deception, so that Hagan could, for just a few hours, appreciate the anguish of all the years Darton had lived in his shadow.