Kiss of the Moon (Medieval Trilogy 2)

“You cannot believe …” she said, but her heart turned to stone when she knew that Hagan was probably right. By now, Tadd would have found out that she’d tricked him, and Isolde … oh, poor Isolde would bear the brunt of Tadd’s vicious wrath. Her insides knotted. If the messenger had not gotten word to Prydd that she and Leah were safe … Her world seemed to crumble around her.

“There will be war, Sorcha.”

“War—nay …” she whispered, but a cold, certain fear gripped her heart in its clawlike grasp.

“Aye,” he said tersely. “War between Erbyn and Prydd.”

“We must strike early,” Sir Brady said, finishing his cup of wine and eyeing the serving wench as she moved between the tables in the noisy little tavern set on the edge of the village. The interior was dark and filled with men who sat at tables, drank mead, and rolled dice. They were a raucous bunch, bellowing insults and laughing at one another.

“Hush—we trust no one,” Darton said with a harsh glance at the men at other tables.

“ ’Tis time!” Brady insisted, pounding his fist upon the scarred table. “If we wait much longer, fewer soldiers will turn away from Hagan. He has come back, and those who had said they would turn their allegiance to you are now wavering. Like it or not, m’lord, Hagan is well loved.”

“Bah! He’s a bastard.”

“But a kind one,” Marshall said, disgust threading through his words. Marshall had no use for men who were not strong and cruel. Kindness was a sign of weakness.

The others seemed to agree with Brady that some of the soldiers they’d hoped to use to start their rebellion were now doubting the wisdom of rising up against Hagan. Sir Marshall touched his neatly trimmed beard with strong, bony hands. “The longer Hagan is back, the harder it will be to wrest his power from him.” He was the thoughtful one of the group. The others—Brady, Elwin, and Ralston—were known for their strength rather than their cunning. They were burly men who had hungry appetites for gambling, drink, and women. Greedy by nature, they’d cast their lots with Darton on the promise of riches—riches Darton could only give them when he was the true Baron of Erbyn.

And of Prydd. For he still planned to take Sorcha for his bride. Her two miracles at Erbyn had convinced the peasants, servants, and soldiers that she was, indeed, powerful—the savior of all that was Prydd.

“I say we lure Hagan out of the castle and kill him. Blame it on outlaws.” Marshall’s plan was simple.

“Others can’t be trusted to do the deed,” Darton replied, thinking of his earlier plan and the archer whose deadly aim was supposed to have killed his brother in the battle with the Scots. But Hagan, by a stroke of luck and the careful eye of his loyal knight, Sir Royce, had escaped with only an injury to his le

g—the very injury that had sent him back to Erbyn early. By God, it just wasn’t fair, as it wasn’t fair to be born scant moments after his brother and thereby lose all his inheritance. He swallowed some of the sour-tasting mead. All his life Darton had been forced to endure the indignation of being born second. What a cruel, vile twist of the fates, for only he was destined to be ruler of Erbyn.

“There’s a cockfight round back,” the serving wench said with a swing of her wide buttocks. “Big Henry, he’s takin’ bets.”

“Ye like cocks, d’ye?” Brady asked with a gleam in his eye.

“Only big ones,” she replied with a toss of her brown hair. She poured more mead into the cups. “And good fighters. That’s what I look for.”

All of the men except Marshall laughed loudly.

Brady tugged on his belt and grinned broadly at his companions. “If it be cocks y’re lookin’ for, I’ll be glad to show ye—”

“I’m sure ye would, darlin’, but it would cost ye more than what y’re payin’ for the drink.” With a slow wink, she turned to another table of men and switched her rump close to Brady’s florid face. He clambered to his feet, but Darton grabbed hold of his arm.

“There’s time for wenching later,” Darton said. “We’ve other things to discuss.”

Brady looked about to argue, but caught the determination in Darton’s gaze and sat down reluctantly, his eyes following the serving wench as men pinched her fleshy arms, joked with her, and patted her on the rump.

“There must be a way to flush Hagan out of the castle and into a trap,” Marshall was saying. “All we need is a little bait—something to entice the good lord to go out on his own.” Marshall took a sip of his mead, and his gaze locked with Darton’s.

“ ’Twill be a simple matter,” Darton said, though his stomach curled a little at the thought. Sorcha. He would use Sorcha to lure Hagan into the woods alone. “As soon as the revels are finished.”

“In two days’ time?” Brady asked.

“Aye, then you can go back to your whoring and gaming.”

Brady grinned wickedly, and Darton settled back on the bench, propping up a knee as he drank of the poor man’s ale. He’d been restless since he’d seen Hagan leave the castle on horseback. Darton had watched in silent rage as Sorcha had joined his brother on a ride far from the walls of Erbyn. Darton had felt it, too, whenever they were together, the passion that they both so vainly tried to hide.

The revels were winding down. Some of the guests were already preparing to leave, and soon, unless the coward had not an ounce of courage in his body, Tadd of Prydd would ride to the castle walls and demand his sisters be returned to him. No doubt he would ask for much more as compensation, and being the hot-tempered ruler he was rumored to be, would never be satisfied. There would be arguments, perhaps even swordplay. Darton hoped so, for his plan was that while the soldiers of Erbyn who were loyal to Hagan were engaged in battle with the warriors from Prydd, he and his band would take over the castle. Aye, it could work. He waved the wench over and motioned to his cup.

The men were right. It was time to attack.

Hagan rode as if Satan were on his tail, but McBannon wasn’t to be outdone and he managed to keep stride with the fleet-footed Wind. Sorcha followed Hagan’s lead, watching the road, learning the countryside that flashed by in a blur. They ran through fields, loped across marshlands, and trotted more cautiously through the forests before they came to the road again and spied Erbyn, that vast and yellow gray dragon curving up the hillside.