Kiss of the Moon (Medieval Trilogy 2)

Well, now, it seemed, it didn’t matter. Anger aimed at his own foolishness as well as the scheming woman raged through his veins. “Get my horse,” he ordered a page who was hovering nearby. “I’ll ride after them myself. Tell Royce, Kennard, and Winston and a few of the other guards that they are to go with me.”

“But you know not where they are,” Anne said.

“Of course I do,” he said with a snarl as he reached for his sword mounted high on the wall. A fury, black as midnight, stormed through his soul, and betrayal burned through his veins. “Sorcha planned this all along.” He slammed his weapon into its scabbard. “She’s on her way to Prydd, and whether she knows it or not, she’s about to start a bloody war.”

Thirteen

ou’re sure of this?” Darton eyed the stable master, because Roy was known to lie. A shrewd pig of a man who smelled of horses, filth, and dung, Roy sat on the hearth in Darton’s chamber, one muddy boot resting on his other knee, fingers with grimy nails drumming against his leg. He was proud of himself, the fat little spy, and Darton was grateful for his watchful eyes, loose tongue, and easily bought loyalty.

Sir Marshall was also in the room, upwind of Roy and standing near the window, surveying the bailey with narrowed eyes. He showed no interest in the conversation, but Darton knew he was following every word that the fat man spoke.

Roy took off his hat and ran thick fingers through his coarse, oily hair. His fleshy chin jutted stubbornly

. “I’m just tellin’ you what I ’eard, there in the stables with my own damned ears. The witch-woman came to ’im, I tell ya.” His lower lip was thrust forward in indignation. “Look, if ye don’t believe me, I’ll ride after the baron and tell ’im what I seen.”

“No reason, no reason,” Darton said hastily. With a nearly invisible nod from Sir Marshall, he reached into his pouch and handed Roy two gold pieces. “Asides, Hagan’s already gone. ’Twould do no good.”

Roy grinned, and Darton didn’t doubt for a minute that the stable master knew that the two brothers were at odds. He’d chosen his side. Good. Darton appreciated a man with a greedy streak.

“I just thought ye’d like to know that the witch has stolen off with Bjorn.” Roy’s eyes, deep in the puffs of his skin, slitted with evil intent. “Been plannin’ it for days, I guess. Anyway, when I get me hands on Bjorn’s skinny neck, I’ll gladly wring it meself.” He grinned broadly, pleased with himself, and he rubbed the pieces of gold that Darton had handed him between his fleshy fingers.

“Don’t worry about Bjorn just yet. Only listen to the gossip and tell me what you hear from the peasants and servants. You’ve done well, Roy.”

“I ’ave, ’aven’t I?”

He seemed about to settle in for a spell, so Darton helped him to his feet.

“But the job’s not done, now, is it? Not until Lady Sorcha is found and safely back in the keep. So you must be off, with your eyes open and your ears to the ground.” Darton shepherded the stable master out of his chamber and closed the door.

Marshall wrinkled his nose. “You think he can be trusted?”

“Nay,” Darton said with a grin, “but he can be bought, and that serves me just as well.”

It was as if fate had played into Darton’s hands. True, he was still missing Sorcha, but she would be found, and when she was, he would force her to marry him, just as he planned. In the past few weeks he’d been thwarted by his brother, but now Hagan was off chasing her, taking with him his most trusted knights, leaving the castle to its lesser defenses.

Most of the guests, including Nelson Rowley, had already left, so the timing couldn’t be more perfect. He gloated inwardly at this stroke of fortune. Now no one, not even his sister, doubted his authority, and soon he would be the true baron, for, unless things turned unexpectedly against him, outlaws would kill Hagan and the barony would fall neatly into Darton’s waiting lap.

“What if the plan goes awry?” Marshall, ever the doubter, asked.

“What can go wrong? Ralston and Brady are the best archers in the castle. They will see to it.”

“You thought that once before,” Marshall reminded him. “One of your paid assassins was to have killed him in the war but Hagan returned with barely a scratch.”

“That was my mistake. But Brady will not fail. He, like Roy, enjoys his gold.” Darton felt more confident than he had in days. Things had turned around in his favor. With his ever watchful eyes, Darton had seen the friendship growing between Sorcha and the stableboy, suspected that she would use Bjorn to help her with her escape. Ever since the day that her devil horse had nearly shattered Darton’s knee and Bjorn had saved the child, Darton had known that the bond between the stableboy and captive lady was strong. He’d watched with interest as she’d laid her long fingers over his wound and whispered into his ear.

Hagan had seen the friendship forming as well, but he’d thought her concern for the boy was due to the stupid notion of love. What a fool his brother was when it came to women. Hagan still believed in romance of the heart, in loving a woman until the end of his days, when it was painfully obvious to Darton that women were simply put on the world to service men and bear their children. Only once in a long while did a woman come along who was more than a warm body on which to rut.

Sorcha of Prydd was such a woman. Because of her special powers. That she was beautiful meant nothing. The fact that his fingers ached to strip away her clothes and touch her in the most intimate of places wasn’t in and of itself so all-compelling. But a woman who had the power to raise the dead, to heal the wounded, to cause a storm to rise from a listless wind; now, that was a woman worth binding oneself to. Her other attributes would give him much pleasure, but ’twas her power that seduced him. Oh, to unleash that power on the world, to use it for his own gain. Darton’s mouth fairly watered at the thought. Kings had been crowned for less.

Clouds blocked the sun, but the cold that cut through Hagan’s surcoat and mantle had nothing to do with the raw January wind that whistled through the canyon. His chill came from within. From fear. From the knowledge that out here somewhere in these damp, gloomy hills, Sorcha was riding.

He hoped she’d returned to Prydd safely, but his fingers tightened over the reins as he thought of the outlaws who prowled these woods. Many of his guests during the Christmas revels had told stories of being attacked on the less-traveled roads. The noblemen had all lived to tell their tales and mayhap they had embellished the truth, heightening the excitement, but several knights had been killed, two women raped, a peasant beaten near to death for his cart of milled wheat.

If Sorcha had managed to get herself safely to the walls of Prydd, there might possibly be war, but at least she would be secure, and her safety, he discovered, was more important than the threat of battle.

Tadd of Prydd was not known for his bravery, and unless his pride was stretched thin, Hagan suspected he could be bought. If not, there would be war.

If Sorcha or Leah were taken by outlaws, there would be war.