Climbing into the window, she stared down at the bailey and felt sorry for herself. Even the girls plucking eggs from nests, milking cows, or herding the geese had more freedom than she.
From her position, she heard the pounding of the carpenter’s hammer and the clank of steel as the armorer forged new weapons. Smoke drifted to the sky and a thin, cool mist shrouded the forest far beyond the castle. The chapel bells rang and she watched Father Timothy and Holt, heads bent against the wind, hurry down the steps and into the bailey. They were arguing, Holt’s face stern, the priest’s worried.
She shivered and felt as if death were near. If only Megan were here or her father were well or her brother hadn’t died. But idle wishes helped no one. For the first time in her life, she had no one to turn to, no one to take care of her. “Please, please help me,” she murmured, hoping God was listening.
Wringing her hands, Cayley tried to think of a way to see the crippled sorcerer again. Though she’d once hated him, she now believed that he was good, that his interests in Dwyrain were pure, that he, if anyone, could help break Holt’s horrid death grip that was clamped firmly over the throat of the keep.
The door opened and a soldier allowed Rue, wearing an apron and carrying a basket of herbs and eggs, into the room. The door closed with a thud. Rue crossed the chamber in surprisingly swift strides. Sighing loudly, she took Cayley’s fingers in her own bony hands.
“Something’s wrong,” Cayley said.
Rue slid a glance at the door. “Aye,” she admitted in a soft whisper.
“Father!”
Rue gripped tighter. “He is not long with us, aye, but he no longer drinks fouled wine. ’Tis you I fear for,” she said. “Holt has sent a messenger to Rolf at Castle Henning, offering you to be the old baron’s bride.”
“What—?” Cayley could hardly breathe and her legs threatened to turn to mush. Rolf was an old man—an enemy of her father—one who had been married many times and whose wives either died or disappeared. “Nay—”
“Aye, ’tis true,” Rue said, finally releasing Cayley’s grip and rubbing her arms as if she were cold from the inside out. Cayley’s strength gave way and she fell against the bed. Marriage to Baron Rolf? Her stomach turned over and she had to fight the urge not to retch.
“It could be worse,” Rue said, avoiding her eyes.
“How?”
“Holt—he’s already promised you to Sir Connor, but he wants not to marry you, because … well … you know …” She fluttered her fingers in the air. “But Holt wants to marry you off and not to Gwayne of Cysgod, though I know you wanted to be his wife.”
“Gwayne is of no matter,” Cayley said quickly, her head spinning. Her love for Gwayne was not deep, she now knew, just a childhood attraction, but Gwayne would be a much better mate than either Rolf or Connor. Her skin pimpled in goose bumps from fear of the dead-eyed knight and the sick old man. “I have to get out of here,” she said. “I—I have to find Megan, to get help from a baron who is friendly to my father … or a priest of—”
“Slow down, child. You be rattled and—”
“But there is no time!” she said, feeling as if a cold, hard hand was slowly squeezing the life from her. “You must help me.”
“Aye,” Rue said, nodding. “I know. I asked Holt to set you free and he laughed at me. Told me ’twas not my place to even make such a suggestion.” Her jaw tightened so hard that the bone showed white against her chin. “He’s loathsome, Cayley, and cannot be allowed to rule Dwyrain.” Then, as if feeling the need to explain herself, Rue glanced down at her hands. “He’s taken a fancy to Dilys,” she said and shook her head. “Poor girl. My only granddaughter. A comely, sweet lass, but sometimes slow.” She swallowed hard and her eyes narrowed with injustice. “ ’Tis difficult for me not to pour the poisoned wine I steal from your father’s chamber into Holt’s mazer. ’Twould please me to see him sputtering and gasping for his life.”
“Aye, and I would slit his throat if I could,” Cayley agreed, surprising herself, for she’d never been a savage woman, had never felt the need for revenge, never wished a man dead except for the sorcerer before she’d met him. When she’d blamed him for the deceit, sickness, and pain at the castle, she’d thought she’d like to see him dead, but now, she knew differently. He was a kind and good man—a strange one with near-magical powers. But not so Holt. He was the very Devil incarnate.
Rue reached into her basket, beneath the
eggs and a soft cloth, to the small dagger she’d hidden there. “For your protection and escape,” she said, handing the knife to Cayley. Its handle was carved from wood, its fat, short blade straight and deadly.
“Escape?” she repeated, gnawing on the inside of her lip as she twirled the tiny weapon in her fingers. “There is no way I can escape.”
“I will help you,” Rue vowed. “Now, I must leave or the guard will become suspicious. We will both think, and when I return, we will have a plan for you to escape Dwyrain, find Megan, and warn her of the horrid beast her husband is.”
“And what then?”
“I know not,” Rue admitted. “Pray your father does not fail.” Adjusting the eggs and herbs over the towel in her basket, she left the room quickly and Cayley heard the bolt being slammed over the door. She could not break down the thick planks with her bit of a knife, nor could she carve her way through the stones of the floor. Her only means of escape was through the hole in the roof for the fire or the window, which was far above the frozen loam of the bailey. Oh, would she were a sorcerer, then she could find a way to escape. At that thought, she rounded her bed and walked to the window, where she could see the north tower. ’Twas there, deep below, where the sorcerer was held. She had only to set him free and he would help her escape and find Megan.
Oh, cursed fates, what could she do against an army the size of Holt’s?
’Tis not the number of men who fight for a cause, but the convictions of those who do, lass. Her father’s words swam in her mind and she knew that there had to be a way to leave these castle walls behind and find Megan.
“Ahh … she awakens …” a gentle female voice, one Megan had heard in her dreams, whispered.
“Praise God,” another, deeper, voice intoned.
“Maybe now we’ll find out who she is.” Another woman, one with a slight lisp.