“But—”
“Just be there.” Angry fire leapt in his eyes.
“Why?”
Fury pulled his brows into a single, dark line. “There are things you need to explain, oh savior of Prydd,” he mocked, his face set in anger, his breath warm as a summer wind against her face. “Things that seem mystical and have disturbed my men. Half of the peasants are ready to get down on their knees and pray to you, and the other half are ready to cut out your heart. Now, as soon as my guests have found comfort, rest assured I will come to you, and this time,” he said, holding up her hand so that the serpent ring seemed to glitter in the glow of the rushlights, “I’ll not take anything less than the truth.”
Ten
ain lashed at the battlements, and Sorcha, sick with worry, paced from the hearth to the window and back again. Now Bjorn was hurt, Hagan was furious, and … the whole castle thought she was some kind of sorceress or madwoman.
The door banged open. “What was that?” Hagan’s face was a mask of fury. Suspicion glinted from his eyes as he walked into the room and kicked the door behind him. “Out in the bailey—with Bjorn, what was that?”
Outside, the wind still howled and rammed the battlements, and inside, the air in the room was thick. “I cannot explain—”
“Try, damn it.”
Her throat tight, her hands wringing with worry, Sorcha bit her lip. “Bjorn—is he all right?”
“Nichodemas is with him.”
“That old man knows nothing. He’d put leeches onto a man who had already bled to death.”
Hagan’s eyes narrowed. “And what would you know about it?”
“Only that it makes no sense to suck a man dry of the very lifeblood that flows through his veins.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I must go to him.” She started for the door, but Hagan was swift, his hand reaching out to capture her arm with deadly aim.
“Do not worry. Your precious stableboy is safe.”
“ My stableboy?”
“I’ve seen how you look at him, Sorcha.”
Sorcha wanted to laugh aloud; so Hagan thought she fancied Bjorn. Fine. Let him think that. ’Twas better than him knowing the truth.
“Now, tell me, what happened out in the bailey? What kind of magic is it that you spin?”
“No magic.”
“Then you would not care that Nichodemas removed this …” He reached into the folds of his tunic and withdrew the red string necklace.
“Oh, no …” She reached for the knotted twine, but Hagan snatched it away.
“Nichodemas sees no need for charms from the devil, as he calls them.”
“Nichodemas is a fool. He’s not fit to stitch up a wounded dog.” To her surprise, a touch of a smile wavered over Hagan’s cruel lips, as if he knew that old man’s failings. “How did you get this?” she asked, pointing at the necklace. Though she told herself she did not believe in magic, in truth, she placed more than a little faith in Isolde’s runes and spells and herbs, and she worried that the stableboy would die without the old remedies.
Her throat was dry as sand. ’Twas her fault Bjorn was injured, Bjorn, whom she felt was her only ally in this castle filled with enemies.
She yanked her arm free, ripped the necklace from Hagan’s fingers, and pulled open the door. Ignoring Hagan’s shout of outrage, she ran out of the room and through the dim corridors. Rushlights flickered as she turned a corner and found herself at the top of the back stairs at the door to Hagan’s private chambers.
A short guard with greasy hair and dark eyes blocked her way. “No one’s allowed—”
“Let me pass,” Sorcha ordered, and when the man seemed unmoved, she stepped closer to him. “I could cast a curse on your family, tell the gods that—”
“Nay, m’lady, please. I’ve been given orders not to let anyone inside.”
Sorcha placed her hands on her hips. “I’m warning you, let me pass—”