Kiss of the Moon (Medieval Trilogy 2)

Ware kept closing the distance. “ ’Twas you who cut my face”—he motioned quickly to the cleaved eyebrow—“you who raped Mary the fisherman’s daughter, who let your men have sport with her, who ruined what was left of her poor life!”

“I know not what you’re saying,” Tadd said, but his voice sounded strangled, and as he eyed the tall warrior his face lost all color.

“Prepare to die, Tadd of Prydd. It’s time to face God for your sins!”

“ ’Tis you who will die!” Tadd declared.

“No!” Sorcha said, hoping to stop the bloodshed.

Tadd lunged, and the tall man agilely stepped aside.

“Son of Satan, you will not live another day.” Tadd turned quickly and managed to keep his balance. He swung his sword wildly, a man possessed by the scent of blood. But the soldier dodged the blow and seemed to be toying with him.

“Stop this madness!” Sorcha cried, her knees weak at the sight of Hagan. “Please, Hagan—” He looked up at her, and in that moment Tadd twisted away from his attacker and, spying Sorcha, he struck, thrusting his sword toward Sorcha again.

“No!” Hagan threw himself in front of the blow just as Ware rammed his deadly sword between Tadd’s ribs. Tadd’s blade ripped through Hagan’s flesh.

Blood poured onto the stone steps as Tadd fell, striking his head. Hagan, too, staggered, and Sorcha ran to him, cradling his head in her hands

, pressing hot kisses against his crown. “You’re alive!” she cried, tears streaming down her face. “Hagan, love, you live!”

His eyes blurred, and then she realized how badly he was wounded. Blood stained his tunic a horrid shade of scarlet, and his lips moved but no sound escaped.

“Oh, God, no …” she whispered, her throat swollen with sudden fear. “You cannot …” She would not watch him die again. She could not. She placed her hands over the blood, but still it ran hot and sticky through the folds of his tunic and through her fingers.

From the corner of her eye she watched Tadd try to struggle to his feet. He smiled though blood drizzled from his mouth. “You cannot save him, Sorcha. You have no power.”

“Nor do you, bastard.” Ware delivered yet another blow with his sword, and Tadd fell silent, his body jerking until all motion stopped.

Sorcha barely noticed, for Hagan was dying in her arms. She tore off his clothes and ripped strips of cloth from her hated dress. Though tears clogged her throat, she bound the ugly gash in his side and yelled, “Bring me water! Call Nichodemas! Oh, Hagan, no. No, no, no!” She held him close, willing him to live, praying to a God who seemed to turn deaf ears in her direction. “You cannot die!”

“Sorcha—” Leah tried to peel her away from the man she loved, but still, while soldiers gathered around, she clung to him, silently praying as her tears fell onto his chest.

“Lady Sorcha—” Garrick tried to be gentle with her, but she would not listen. She’d endured Hagan’s death once before; she couldn’t bear the thought of living without him again. “He’s gone—”

“Nay!” she screamed. “He is not yet dead!” She wouldn’t believe that God would bring Hagan back only to steal him from her again. She stared into his eyes and knew they were unseeing, that he was leaving her as surely as the wind was rising over the hills.

“Someone help her,” Garrick said. “Hagan is no longer with us.”

“No. Leave her.” Anne’s voice was filled with quiet authority as she placed the necklace of red twine in Sorcha’s bloody fingers. “Only you can save him,” she said. “As you saved me.”

Sorcha’s heart ripped a little further as she placed the knotted red strands over Hagan’s head and let the twigs settle on his chest. “You will not die, my love,” she said, though her voice trembled as she touched his chin gently, her fingers brushing the coarse stubble of his beard. “I cannot live without you.”

His gaze, so bleary, centered on her, and he struggled with words before he gave up a rattling breath and closed his eyes. Disbelieving, she felt the life draining out of him. As surely as sand slipped through the hourglass, Hagan was leaving this world. “Please, God, if ever you have listened to me,” she whispered, “spare this man, this warrior. Dear Jesus, please …” She kissed his crown tenderly and fought back the sobs that racked her body and tore at her soul. “Hagan, can you hear me? You must live …” Her fingers wrapped around his, and she closed her eyes, chanting, praying, hoping that he would be strong enough to turn back the hand of death.

She felt the eyes of a hundred soldiers turned toward her. The air went suddenly still and cold, and somewhere in the distance the wind began to rise. “Come, love,” she whispered, coiling her fingers around the tiny sticks of the necklace.

The serpent ring began to pulse, and heat encircled her finger. “I’ve waited for you. Don’t leave me now.”

Behind her eyelids she saw the flash of eerie light, and thunder rumbled through the heavens. She shuddered as rain began to pour. “Please, please,” she whispered, her voice breaking with raw emotion. “Hear me, Hagan. I love you. I’ll always love you. Come back to me …”

He didn’t move, but the ring pulsed hot and Sorcha felt a shudder rip through her body.

He coughed, then was still.

“Come, Sorcha …” Garrick’s voice was firm, and Anne began to sob.

The strength ebbed from her as she felt her arms being pried from around his neck, her heart breaking a hundred times over. What cruelty was this—that she should find him alive only to watch him die?