Kiss of the Moon (Medieval Trilogy 2)

He touched her hand, lifting it so that the silver ring caught in the morning light. One long finger traced the serpent’s coil. “What kind of magic is this, Sorcha?” He dropped her hand, and she bit her lip. Seconds passed. His eyes were kind when he said, “Until I can trust you, you will remain in here or with a guard at all times. I can be fooled once, but not a second time. ’Tis your choice whether you are a guest or a prisoner.”

Sorcha swallowed the lump in her throat. In truth, she had committed many crimes against Erbyn, be they for a good cause or not. He, as lord, could imprison her as he saw fit. Biting her tongue against challenging him further, she tried to ignore the dried blood on the sleeve of his tunic.

“I’ll not forget that you tried to kill me.”

She felt a little bit of remorse, for she had never before hurt a man, yet she couldn’t stop the words that fell off her tongue. “I only wish I could have slit your miserable throat.”

His smile was suddenly cruel. “Mayhaps you’ll get another chance,” he said, the color of his eyes shifting to a darker shade of gold.

Sorcha’s heart thudded painfully. In the thick silence, she knew that he was thinking of their night in his room, and her cheeks flamed hot when she remembered how wantonly she’d behaved.

“Be careful, O savior of Prydd,” he warned in a dangerously low voice that touched a forbidden part of her, “for you are at Erbyn now, and here we play by my rules.” He turned on his heel and strode quickly out of the room.

The heavy oak bar dropped into place with a thud that echoed to the ceiling. Without a doubt she was doomed to be a prisoner at Erbyn until Hagan the Cruel saw fit to release her and her sister.

Never before had she felt so small and frightened. Crossing her legs, she sat down on the cold floor. If only those who thought she was meant to be their deliverer could see her now, she thought miserably. ’Twas horrid fate that put her in the hands of her sworn enemy.

But she couldn’t let him win. No matter what else happened, she would never let the Baron of Erbyn become the man who destroyed her and all that she held dear. He would have to let her visit Leah, and once her sister was well enough, they would escape.

With new conviction she walked to the window of her room and stared down at the inner bailey. The window was set high into the castle wall, far above the bailey, placed too high for her to jump to the ground, and the smooth stones were far too slick to scale downward. She could not escape without help, that much was certain.

But who would help her win her freedom? She leaned against the wide windowsill and eyed the guards standing rigidly at their posts, then forced her attention to a lad carrying a heavy basket of fish into the kitchen. A knight was giving a lesson in archery to several young squires, and still another worked with a stubborn lad at the quintain. Surely someone would help her. The trick was to find out who would be a traitor to Erbyn, who hated Hagan as much as she.

Once she had uncovered a servant’s disloyalty, she could use it to her advantage. To do so, she would have to gain access to the castle, and Hagan would not be so foolish unless she deceived him into thinking that she would do his bidding. The thought was like a stone settling deep in the pit of her stomach, but she had no choice. She had to pretend to accept her fate.

Leah’s life and the safety of Prydd were in her inexperienced hands.

“What were the herbs that you gathered last night, old woman?” Tadd asked. Seated at the scarred trestle table, a cup of wine cradled between his fingers, he stared at Isolde as if he knew her darkest secrets.

Isolde shivered within her soul, but tried to remain outwardly calm. She noticed one of the scullery maids stringing ivy and ribbons to decorate the great hall. The girl, a gossip with gapped teeth and freckles, worked slowly, her ear trained to the conversation at hand. Isolde cleared her throat. “I found some witches’ briar and loveroot,” she answered. “Near the edge of the forest.”

“ ’Tis not the season for flowers or seeds.”

“True, but ’tis time to dig roots,” she said. “Some herbs are best harvested while the moon is waning, others while the moon is waxing full—”

“My horse was stolen,” Tadd cut in, obviously bored with her. His gaze never left her face. “The deed happened last night, while you were out performing your dark arts. The stable master’s missing along with McBannon.”

Isolde’s insides quivered, but she showed no outward sign of emotion.

“What know you of this?”

“Nothing, m’lord.”

His lip curled in disbelief. “You saw and heard nothing, though you were outside the castle gates?”

“I was busy, m’lord, and my eyes are not as strong as they once were.”

“You know, old woman, digging herbs for your black magic is frowned upon by Father William and the church. Should the good priest find out that you practice the pagan ways of the old people, you could suffer banishment or worse.” Lazily Tadd unsheathed his dagger and, while watching Isolde with his cruel eyes, picked at his teeth.

“I worship not the dark one, Lord Tadd. You know me to be a Christian woman.”

He stopped working on his teeth and stuck his knife into the thick boards of the table. The scullery maid moved closer, and his eyes wandered to the sway of hips before he turned his attention back to Isolde. “Yea, I know of your beliefs, Isolde. I know you still practice the old ways while pretending to have faith in the one true God.” He took a long, slow swallow of his wine, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

Isolde’s palms began to grow moist. Tadd was the least Christian man in all of Prydd. Aye, he attended mass each morn and bowed his head as if in prayer, but Isolde suspected that his piety was false. His heart was black, his soul that of the very devil.

Still watching her intently, he said, “Think hard. I trust you would tell me what happened to my destrier, should you know, should you have seen anything unusual last night.”

“Of course, m’lord.”