“Hush, Trent. ’Tis time to save your strength—”
“Nay, my lord, listen,” Trent cried, his face twisted in agony, his bloodless lips sucking in air. “I was with a wench in the House of McBrayne. She knew naught of a captured boy.”
“Osric McBrayne found you — lying with a wench?” Garrick asked as a white-faced page scurried forward, offering a cup of water.
“Aye,” Trent admitted, his eyes glazing.
Garrick scowled as the page forced the cup to Trent’s lips. Water drizzled down the knight’s dirty, beard-darkened chin. “We will talk more when you are stronger.”
“Nay! Now!” Trent insisted, slapping the cup anxiously away as his fingers grappled over Garrick’s tunic. “I spoke with others too — soldiers with loose tongues, craftsmen … freeman, and peasants.” He struggled, words coming hard to his cracked lips. “None knew of the boy … none.”
“And still McBrayne did this to you?” Garrick whispered, rage tearing through his soul.
“Aye … He said he would have no spies from the House of Maginnis in…” Trent’s last rattling breath tore through his lungs and he slumped in Garrick’s arms as the priest rushed through the huge oaken door.
“’Tis too late, Father,” Garrick stated flatly. “He’s gone.”
“Let me have him, my lord,” Strahan said, wresting Trent’s body from Garrick’s unwilling arms. Pain knifed through Garrick’s heart, for he cared for his men and he felt a blinding stab of guilt for having sent so loyal a knight to his death. His fists clenched, and he swore furiously despite the chaplain’s look of reproach.
Ware, who stood near the stairs, had heard the entire conversation. His young face was lined, his eyes dark and threatening. “Will there be war with Castle Hawarth and McBrayne?”
“Not yet.”
“But Trent—”
“Trent’s death is my fault,” Garrick said heavily, his soul as dark as midnight. Trent, trustworthy Trent, was gone. Killed because of Garrick’s blind obsession with finding his son. He was lucky Calvert had survived.
He glanced down at his hands, still sticky and soiled by Trent’s blood.
Mindful that his men were watching, he strode to the table where less than a fortnight ago his child had eaten with him. He took the towel offered him by a page and scrubbed his hands, revenge burning hot in his mind.
If there were any servants about, they had vanished to safety, although a cup of ale was waiting. Dropping into his chair, Garrick leaned forward and braced his forehead against his fists. For the first time he considered the possibility that Logan and his nursemaid might be dead.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he told himself to be strong, to accept the fate that God had dealt him, but his jaw grew tight with anger and his soul sick with misery. What kind of a test was God giving him? How much longer would he suffer the pain of not knowing what had happened to his only son?
Hearing the scrape of a boot, he reached instinctively for his sword and swung his head around, only to find Strahan, his face set, standing rigid on the other side of the table.
“What is it?” Garrick demanded.
“’Tis time to put this matter to rest,” he said.
One of Garrick’s dark brows inched upward. “Now you are giving orders?”
Strahan’s lips tightened. “Not orders, my lord. Advice.”
“Aye, and I need advice now, do I?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Strong words, cousin.”
Strahan didn’t back down. “The men are ready to ride.”
“Ahh.” Garrick stretched his long legs under the table. “To Castle Wenlock and the witch.”
“The sorceress — and even she does not deign to call herself such.”
Garrick’s eyes narrowed on his cousin. He motioned with his fingers. “And tell me of this woman — of her powers.”