Kiss of the Moon (Medieval Trilogy 2)

“Aye, she’s still in her bed. Resting. But I think she’s on the mend.”

The guard smiled, and Isolde was thankful that Sir Geoffrey was a trusting soul not known for his wits.

“Leah!” Sorcha could hardly believe her eyes as, with a moan, Leah stirred, her lids opened, and she stared up at her sister.

“Praise the Lord,” Rosemary said.

“Or the devil,” Nellie muttered under her breath.

Sorcha didn’t care what the simple woman thought. It was enough to know that her sister was going to survive. For three long days she’d kept her vigil, sitting for hours at Leah’s side, waiting for word from the messenger, and plotting their means of escape if Tadd refused Hagan’s terms and started a war.

She was worried, for she’d seen the armorer and his sons working from daybreak until long into the night, cleaning and preparing weapons and mail. The stableboys, too, had been grooming the horses and repairing broken saddles and bridles.

Soldiers eagerly practiced against the quintain or spent hours shooting arrows at targets, and troops from other castles seemed to be amassing. Aye, there was more than the spirit of the Christmas revels in the air, there was the smell of war.

“Sorcha?” Leah’s voice was faint and raspy, barely more than a whisper. “What? Where?” Her confused gaze traveled over the room. “I’ve had such horrible dreams …” Her voice left her as her gaze settled on Nellie. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “We’re at Erbyn.”

“Yes. But not for long.”

Leah’s green eyes filled with sudden tears and terror shook her voice. “Oh, please, you don’t know …”

“Shh. ’Twill be all right.”

Leah tried to scramble to a sitting position, winced in pain, and noticed for the first time the strips of linen binding her wrists. She let out a pitiful moan, then clamped a hand over her mouth, as if she was afraid of being overheard. “Darton?” she whispered, her eyes like mirrors.

“He’s here, but not allowed in this chamber. Lord Hagan has returned.”

Leah didn’t seem relieved. She clutched Sorcha’s hand with cold fingers and amazing strength. “Do not let him near me, Sorcha.”

“Worry not.”

“Oh, but you do not know!” Leah’s voice was desperate, her pretty face lined with strain.

Sorcha held her sister’s hands between her own, and a great joy filled her heart. Leah was alive. She’d survived. She leaned close to her sister and kept her voice low. “Worry not, Leah,” she said with more conviction than she felt, “for our days here are numbered. I have found a way to escape.”

Eight

ying on her bed, listening hard, Sorcha heard the changing of the guard. She knew from talk in the castle that it was well past midnight when the soldiers changed posts. Ears straining, she heard a few words of greeting, then, holding her breath, listened as they walked past her door. One guard was posted at each end of the hallway, but she guessed, from the sounds she’d heard within the castle every night, that there was a little time when they both talked at the head of the stairs, and now, because of the Christmas revels, they’d drunk more mead and wine than they should and would soon be dozing at their posts.

She slid into the black hooded cloak that she’d inherited from Lady Anne, then soundlessly made her way to the door. It was not locked, as Hagan had insisted she was a guest, and she’d spent most of the evening greasing the hinges with the mutton fat she’d sneaked from the table.

Without a sound she opened the door, and then, spying the guards with their backs to the hallway, she hurried noiselessly in the other direction to the back stairs past Hagan’s chamber. It was dark; she felt the rough wall with her fingers as all along the hallway the rushlights had burned down to soft red embers.

She held her breath as she passed Hagan’s door and slipped down the stairs, careful not to fall. The kitchen was empty, but a dog guarded the back door. She couldn’t see the hound, but heard him growl ominously.

He was joined by another with an even lower and more threatening rumble of his throat.

“Now, now, boys,” she whispered, hearing the hounds start to get to their feet. “See what I’ve got for you.” She tossed the scraps of the mutton fat to the animals, who snarled and fought for the prize as she opened the back door and felt the cold breath of winter against her face.

Only thin light from the moon sifted through high clouds, but Sorcha had spent her days committing the features of the dark bailey to her memory. Without hesitation, she dashed along a muddy path that wound past the cobbler’s hut and the closed doorway of the candlemaker.

Hens clucked anxiously as she passed their coop, and farther away, the lowing of a cow filled the night, but Sorcha didn’t hesitate. The stables weren’t far now, and she gathered her skirts and ran through the shadows, certain the soldiers at their posts on the battlements couldn’t see her.

Upon the wind the acrid smells of urine, leather and sweat, dung and horseflesh, combined to meet her hungry nostrils. She found the stable door and sent up a quiet prayer that she wouldn’t be discovered. With a groan the door opened and Sorcha slipped into the dark interior, unaware that Hagan, restless from a night filled with dreams of her warming his bed, had walked out of the keep himself and was standing near the well, watching as she dashed furtively within the walls of the inner bailey. He followed Sorcha’s path and decided she was more trouble than he needed.

Yet he was fascinated and he wondered what he would do when he caught up with her. Grab her roughly and toss her back into her room and bar the door, or yank her to him and kiss her until the passion that roared through his blood disappeared?

“There you are,” Sorcha whispered as she saw McBannon tethered near the doorway. She would recognize the stallion anywhere, even in the stables illuminated only by the frail light from the windows. Other horses had snorted at being awakened, but McBannon nickered softly, guiding her with his voice.