“Help! Guards! Please, help!” Sorcha screamed as she jumped from her own mount. The little horse sprinted into the outer bailey, and Sorcha fell to the ground, where she cradled Keane’s head upon her lap. “Do not die,” she whispered, tears hot against her eyelids. “Keane, please, you must not die!”
“He’s dead,” Isolde whispered, and Brother Ignatius murmured last rites over Keane’s body.
“Noooo!” Sorcha wailed, her cries of grief resounding to the rafters of the solar. Her heart felt as if it had been ripped from her chest, and tears burned behind her eyes. “Use your magic, do whatever you must, but do not let him die!”
Keane lay upon the bed, his wounds bound, his face a gray mask.
Isolde touched his neck, feeling for signs of life, a pulse, then leaned down, her ear to his chest, as she listened for the smallest breath. “I’m sorry, m’lady—”
“Nay! He cannot be dead. He cannot!” Sorcha wailed. She approached Isolde and grabbed the servant woman by the cloak. “Some say you are a witch. Have you no potion to cure this—”
“I cannot save the dead.”
“But you must!” Sorcha cried, refusing to accept that Keane’s life was over. Had he not planned to meet her, he might still be alive. Guilt gnawed at her. She threw herself against his unmoving body, holding on to him, knowing she would never love another. “Keane, Keane … please … merciful God—”
“Had there been more life force within him, mayhaps, but—”
“ ’Tis in God’s hands now, my child,” Brother Ignatius whispered, gently pulling Sorcha off Keane’s lifeless form.
“No!”
Tadd’s voice rumbled through the hallway. “Bloody Christ, is there no end to her schemes?” he growled, kicking open the door. It banged against the stone wall. Sorcha jumped, blinking back tears as her brother strode into the room. He loomed above her, his shoulders as broad as an axe handle, his face twisted with a powerful rage. “You disobeyed me.”
“I—”
“Do not bother to lie to me again, for I will not believe you. Did you not bargain with Leah to go to mass in your stead?”
“Yea, but—”
“With only Sir Henry as her guard?”
“Aye … and Gwendolyn,” she answered more carefully.
“Even though she is not as quick with a knife as you be.”
“I understand not why you care. Sir Keane is dead!” she said, finally accepting the terrible truth, her bones seeming to turn to water.
“Aye, and he’s not the only one.”
Tadd’s words cut to her very soul. Sorcha’s throat tightened and her pulse pounded with dread. Beyond the anger in Tadd’s eyes there were vile accusations. “News of Father in the war?” she whispered, dread pulsing through her.
“Nay.”
Suddenly Sorcha understood her brother’s ire. Their sister. Where was Leah? In her worry for Keane’s life, Sorcha had forgotten Leah. Now her stomach wrenched painfully and her tongue was thick with fear. “Not Leah.”
Tadd didn’t reply, and a new, horrid fear gripped Sorcha’s heart. “Tell me,” she demanded.
“Tell you,” Tadd repeated, his rage retreating a little. Satisfaction gleamed in his eyes. He liked nothing better than to keep a secret from Sorcha, who deemed herself a princess, who was born with the damned birthmark, who, he suspected, might be his equal in everything but strength.
“Where is she?”
“Ask Sir Robert,” he said, enjoying this game immensely.
“Sir Robert?” Sorcha repeated, stunned. Robert was one of Tadd’s most trusted knights.
“The traitor in the dungeon. He has news from Castle Erbyn.”
Sorcha felt as if a ghost had walked across her soul. Years ago, Hagan’s father, Richard, had unsuccessfully tried to wrest control of Prydd from her father’s hands. A blackheart himself, Richard had been known to consort with thieves and outlaws. His ambitions wer