“Nay. Only with the moon’s blessing will they bear medicine,” she said.
“Your black arts will be the end of ye, Isolde,” he grumbled. “I’ll close the gate behind ye, but don’t be expectin’ to come back through the gate tonight. You can bloody well stay out till morning!” The great horse walked quickly to the outer bailey. They only had a few minutes until the guard climbed down the steps from the tower to the gatehouse.
Isolde grabbed Sorcha’s hand one last time. “Be careful, ’tis the Christmas revels, my girl, and many who visit Erbyn might know ye.”
“You worry too much,” Sorcha replied, though the old woman’s words settled deep in her soul.
“And you worry not enough! Now, be off with ye, if ye insist on going.”
“Ha!” With a swift kick to McBannon’s sides, Sorcha leaned forward in the saddle. The feisty bay bolted, his strong legs digging into the soft loam of the outer bailey. As she passed through the gates of the castle, she wondered if she’d ever see the thick stone walls of Prydd again. From the corner of her eye she noticed Isolde pick up a handful of earth and toss it in Sorcha’s wake—for protection; a custom of the old ways.
Yea, for her plan might not be perfect, but she had no time to improve it. She had to rescue Leah before the devil himself—Hagan of Erbyn—returned.
With breath as cold as a demon’s soul, the wind blew through the trees, shaking the leafless black branches and bringing driving sleet that pounded on Hagan’s neck and head and dripped down his nose.
He rode on, and with every step of his war-horse, he gritted his teeth against the pain, as hot as the day was cold, that seared his thigh.
The wound was two weeks old and healing well. He’d developed no fever and had wanted to return to battle, but King Edward had insisted Hagan return to Erbyn.
“Lord Hagan.” Sir Royce, astride a restless gray steed, commanded Hagan’s attention. Royce was a big man with good intentions and little brains. His courage and loyalty were never in doubt, though sometimes his judgment faltered. “Could I have a word?”
Hagan swung his head around, but didn’t allow his horse to stop. They trudged through the icy rain, splashing water from puddles and heading ever west. “What troubles you?”
“Mayhaps we should rest.” The heavy man’s gaze drifted from Hagan’s face to his thigh, the very thigh the arrow had pierced.
“We’re close to Erbyn.”
“Yea, but Sir Darton expect
s us not until the morrow.”
“All the better.”
Royce seemed perplexed, but Hagan didn’t explain. For several years he had begun to worry about his twin brother’s ambitions, but he’d kept his fears to himself, content to observe. Darton had every reason to feel slighted; he’d inherited from their father, Richard, only a small piece of land in the northwest corner of Erbyn. And Anne, his sister, had been left with naught. Consequently, Hagan was always at odds with his siblings. Leaving Erbyn in their care during his pilgrimage to help the king with the Scots had been difficult. ’Twould be interesting to see how Darton ran the castle without his brother’s wary eye upon him.
“We ride on,” Hagan said, setting his features in grim determination and allowing no evidence of the pain to show on his face. “We’ll be at Erbyn by nightfall and can plan the Christmas revels.”
Sorcha shivered in the sleet. The sky was an ominous gray, and she couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that had ridden with her on her journey from Prydd. Fierce winds howled through these treacherous hills of Erbyn, shrieking through the trees and rattling the branches. Her clothes were soaked through and she was chilled to the marrow of her bones. As she stood in the thicket and peered through dripping pine boughs to Castle Erbyn, it seemed as if all the fates were against her.
Erbyn was the largest castle she’d seen in all her years. Like a dragon from one of Isolde’s old myths, the keep loomed upon a steep hillside. Rain pelted the wide battlements, and the sturdy walls were built of the same yellow-gray stone as the sheer cliffs on which the castle had been constructed. Somewhere, deep within Erbyn, Leah was kept prisoner. As Sorcha should have been. “I will not fail you, sister,” she vowed as a frigid blast of wind rushed through the branches, causing them to sway in an eerie dance.
Sorcha’s heart closed with fear and she wondered if Leah was still alive. What horrid tortures had befallen her at the hands of Darton?
“By all that is holy, please give her comfort,” Sorcha prayed, her hands blue and trembling as she crossed herself. If only she had learned of the old ways—of Isolde’s spells and chants—she would curse the keep of Erbyn forever and call up the dark spirits to strip the baron of his lands as well as his manhood. As for Darton, there would be a place in hell for that maggot. But she, raised as a Christian, had never been allowed to know the secrets of magic, practiced by so many within the walls of Prydd.
Teeth chattering, she tied her horse to a low-hanging branch of an oak tree. Fervently she hoped that the steed wouldn’t chill. He was a spirited animal, but she’d ridden hard all night, and now his flesh quivered beneath his hide, and lather flecked his mud-dappled chest. “I’ll be back, McBannon,” she promised as she patted his sleek shoulder. “With Leah.”
From her saddle pouch she pulled the old burnet tunic that Isolde had given her. The fabric was rough and scratchy as she slid it over the shorter tunic and breeches she’d worn. Next she donned a dirt brown cloak with a cowl. The cloak was in sad need of a needle and thread, but Sorcha was certain she looked like many of the peasant women who lived near the castle. With numb fingers she tied her hair away from her face and pulled the cowl over her head, but never once did she forget the knife tucked into her boot, its cool blade touching her calf.
“Lord help me,” she whispered, grabbing her basket and picking her way through the skeletal brambles and dripping ferns. At the edge of the road she waited until two horsemen passed. Once the riders had rounded the bend and the road was empty, Sorcha hurried from her hiding spot and walked quickly in the direction of Erbyn. Sleet tore at her cowl, and her fingers felt like ice around the handle of her basket, but she plodded forward, knowing that Leah’s fate was in her hands.
The old midwife’s words followed after her. ’Tis ye who are held captive by Lord Hagan himself, ’tis ye who will not return.
Grimacing, Sorcha shoved aside her fear and gathered her courage. Her plan was simple. With the knowledge gained from the traitor, Robert, she knew how Erbyn’s inner bailey was guarded. She also had learned of the keep itself. Robert, once he’d decided to divulge the truth, had been very precise in his descriptions of the great hall. He’d told of a back staircase leading directly to the lord’s chambers—cold stone steps for the coward to use if he had to flee the castle, or a staircase used to bring up wenches and unwilling servant girls to the master’s bed.
Sorcha gritted her teeth. No doubt Leah’s virginity had been stolen by Darton and his men. Bile rose in her throat, but she found comfort in the sharp steel of her knife in her boot. Though she’d never killed a man before this night, she planned to take the very life of Darton if she had to.
“God be with me,” she prayed, and failing God’s guidance, she had, tucked deep in her basket, beneath the linen liner, yet another dagger.