CHAPTER Eight
“What’s this?” Ian asked, as Webb, nudging an old man in front of him, crossed the bailey to a corner where targets had been mounted. For the first time in days, the sky was a brilliant shade of blue and a weak winter sun struggled to give off some much-needed heat.
Ian, who had been sighting his weapons, lowered the heavy crossbow as the ancient one approached. He was hobbled, his hands bound behind his back, and he stumbled across the uneven grass. He stopped a few feet away from the lord of the manor and raised his head to meet Ian’s gaze. Ian recoiled in disgust. Webb’s pauper of a prisoner had but one eye. The other was sightless and scarred. Who was this man and why did Ian feel the taunt of a hellish memory tug at his mind?
“We found not the boy, m’lord,” Webb admitted. His shoulders were stiff, his mouth a grim line.
“For the love of Christ-”
“But this man, a magician he claims himself to be, was seen traveling with a young lad who looked much like Gareth.”
Ian walked toward the two and regretted his quick movement as pain exploded up his legs. Damn Trevin of Black Oak. That bastard would roast in hell for the trouble and agony he’d wreaked. “The boy escaped?”
“He was hidden, m’lord, but we found this one-” Sir Webb shoved the old one forward and he stumbled to one knee before finding his balance again “-with his nose in a cup at an inn. He calls himself Muir and will not speak of his companion.”
“Did no amount of… persuasion loosen his tongue?” Ian asked while trying to place the ancient one. Muir. Had he not heard the name before? The magician—if that’s really what he was—again seemed vaguely familiar and teased the corners of Ian’s memory, never quite coming into focus. Had they met before? When? Why would he not remember such a vile, ugly visage?
Webb lifted a dark eyebrow. “I thought mayhap ye would like to do the persuading yourself, my lord.”
Ian turned the suggestion over in his mind but couldn’t imagine flogging this pathetic pauper. Nearly crippled, he was, and half blind. Ian would find no satisfaction in whipping the already hunched back. “Mayhap, in time,” he hedged, “but we will kill him not. If we keep him here, there is a chance the boy or some of his accomplices might return to try and free him.”
“Aye.” Webb actually grinned as a hawk circled high over the battlements. “’Tis an opportunity too good to resist.”
Thoughtfully, Ian rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Be ye a sorcerer, then, old man?”
“Some say.” The wizard had the audacity to stare him coldly in the face, and Ian fought the urge to shudder at the hate he felt emanating from that one seeing eye.
“I care not what ‘some’ say. What say you?”
“’Tis only magic if ye believe.”
“Tangled words from a fraud,” Ian said, then added, “or from bait, for that is what you are, old man, bait for your friends.”
“Ye would be wise to fear my friends,” he replied, unruffled and prideful though he stood in a dirty, tattered coat that dragged on the ground and was so ragged it hardly covered his age-bent shoulders. “And, m’lord,” he added with no hint of a smile, “ye would be wise to fear me as well.”
“You? You? Do you jest?” Ian laughed at Muir’s audacity. The sorcerer was too smug. Too arrogant. And ugly. “Look at you, old one, you’ve got one foot in the grave as it is. ‘Tis not I who is tied like a trussed boar. If ye are able to conjure up some magic, ‘twould be wise to start now.” He motioned to a page standing near the target. “Retrieve the bolts!”
“In time. Trust me, m’lord,” Muir mocked. “I will use my magic in time.”
“You’ve run out of time.”
Muir’s eye held not a bit of warmth. “We shall see.”
Though there was no reason to think it, Ian couldn’t shake the sensation that the temperature within the bailey had dropped. ‘Twas as if a cold wind had raced across the bare grass to swirl around him and yet the air did not move.
The page returned with the bolts and once again Ian picked up his crossbow and pointed it toward the tarp that had been painted to look like a soldier, then spread across a pile of hay. “Take him away,” he ordered the guards, tired of the uncanny look in the old man’s eye. “Lock the wizard in the dungeon, but see that no harm comes to him. I wish him to stay alive.”
“Aye, m’lord,” a soldier, a skinny man named Harold, agreed as he shoved Muir’s thin shoulders. “Come along now.”
Nearly falling, Muir turned to cast one last bone-chilling look over his shoulder. “’Tis sorry ye’ll be, Ian of Rhydd. Very sorry.”
Though he knew not why, the lord felt a sudden and nameless fear.
Why she listened to him, she didn’t know, but Gwynn, for once in her life, hadn’t argued and had ridden with Trevin to Black Oak Hall. She’d hoped that Gareth would be waiting for her and, as their horses galloped through the crumbling portal of the bailey, she knew she’d been foolish. Gareth would not have come here without the magician.
So where was he? On the road to Castle Heath? Returning to Rhydd? Please, God, keep him safe, he is but a boy.
Black Oak Hall was nearly in ruins, though there were efforts, it seemed, to fix the chipped mortar in the walls, and replace rotting beams in the huts propped against the great hall as well as rethatch sparse roofs.
“Lord Trevin returns,” a watchmen yelled from the highest tower and Gwynn, glancing upward, shivered as she remembered the story that the castle was cursed, had fallen upon bad times. Was that the turret from which Baron Dryw had fallen—or had been pushed—to his death?
“Lord Trevin!”
“’Tis good y’er home, m’lord.”
“Make way, make way.”
Voices, echoing the guard’s words, clamored with excitement. The farrier left his forge burning brightly, carpenters laid down their hammers and saws, the armorer who had been cleaning mail in sand brushed off his hands and loped across the bailey. As it was just past midday, the keep, smaller by far than Rhydd, bustled with workers and animals, peddlers, and a band of musicians.
Trevin reined to a stop and Gwynn, slowing her own mount, felt lost, as if she were alone in an unfamiliar land. She searched the faces staring up at her, hoping against hope that she would spy her boy, but nowhere in the gathering crowd was there any boy resembling her son. Her heart dropped. Where was he? Captured with that simpleton of a magician? Rotting away in some dungeon at Rhydd? Lost or hurt in the forest? Set upon by outlaws or wolves?
Stop it, Gwynn! Gareth’s a clever boy. Have faith. With fierce determination, she hiked up her chin, swallowed back her fears, and stiffened her spine.
Trevin slid off his mount and tossed his reins to a bug-eyed page who viewed Webb’s charger warily. The horse tossed his great head and snorted as the nervous boy led him away.
With strong hands, Trevin helped Gwynn from her saddle and gave the reins to another, even younger boy with strawlike hair that stuck out in ungainly tufts and a smile missing more than one tooth.
“Thank the Good Lord for your safe return, Lord Trevin,” a scrawny priest welcomed. He was a foot shorter than the lord of the castle and completely bald, the only hair on his head being a reddish beard. Freckles spattered his face, crown, and neck.
“’Tis good to see you again, Father.” Trevin clasped the man’s bony outstretched hand.
“And you as well.”
“M’lord!” A steward strode forward, his boots squishing in the wet sod of the bailey. He was as tall as Trevin but without an ounce of fat or muscle upon his bones. “Welcome home,” he greeted warmly. “You’re looking well and that steed-” with appraising eyes he glanced to the stables where Webb’s charger was tethered and already being groomed “he will make a fine addition to the herd.”
“Won’t he?” Trevin replied with a half-smile, his eyes glinting in blue devilment. “I borrowed him from… an old friend.”
Gwynn let out a puff of disgusted air. Old friend? Webb?
“Borrowed? As in permanently?” the steward asked, reading the baron’s thoughts.
“Most likely,” Trevin agreed.
Oh. They were used to the outlaw-baron and his thieving ways. Funny, but she didn’t think of Trevin as a thief any longer, but then she was being silly. Just because he’d kissed her to the point of her nearly losing consciousness was no reason not to see him for what he truly was.
“We were worried when you didn’t return. Sir Gerald said you would arrive soon, but I admit I had feared the worst.”
“No reason, Emerson,” he said. To the steward and the others who had crowded around them, he added, “I’d like you all to welcome Lady Gwynn of Rhydd. She is my guest and will be treated as such. Whatever she wishes is hers.”
“Welcome, m’lady.” The steward bowed grandly. “I’m Emerson and pleased to be at your service.”
Gwynn nodded, though she had no time for pleasantries. Where was Gareth? Scullery maids, alewives, gong farmers, farriers, and carpenters were filling the bailey. Children followed after their parents, boys and girls with freshly scrubbed faces, or runny noses as the air was cold but, of course, Gareth was not among them.
“The lady has come here looking for her son, a boy by the name of Gareth. Twelve years old with black hair and blue eyes, about so high-” Trevin held his hand at the level of his shoulders. “He was probably traveling alone, mayhap without a mount.”
“I’ve seen no unknown lad,” Emerson responded, his brow furrowing in concentration as he shared a glance with another man, a soldier, as if for confirmation.
“Nor I, m’lord,” the knight with curling blond hair agreed. “I’ve stood guard at the gate as well as the west tower. No boy of that description, save Jake, the armorer’s son who we’ve all known for years, has been to Black Oak.”
“’Tis true.” A fat woman with hips that seemed to float beneath her tunic and a dingy white scarf wrapped around her head approached. Her hands were chapped raw, her apron splattered with blood. A girl of three hung on her leg, peering at Gwynn with curious, wary eyes.
“You know me, m’lord, I’m the eyes and ears of this ‘ere castle and if old Mary ain’t seen the lad, he ‘asn’t been ‘ere.” She gave a clumsy curtsy and shook her head. “Sorry, m’lady, but I’ve seen no boy who looks like yer son.”
“Nor I,” the priest agreed.
Bone-tired, Gwynn wanted to break down and cry, or shake the living hell out of Trevin and demand that he find their son, but she stood as she was, dirty but proud, a mother worried sick for her boy. Her heart was heavy, her muscles ached, and she longed for the peace of mind that had eluded her ever since she’d heard that Roderick had escaped and was returning. ‘Twas only days ago and yet she felt as if weeks had passed. She was tired, hungry, and irritable.
The whisper running through the crowd of peasants and freeman was that no boy matching Gareth’s description was hiding within the crumbling walls of Black Oak. Gwynn’s hopes fell onto the cold, sharp stones of reality that Gareth was captured or lost or worse. Dear God in heaven, was it possible that he had died and she was unaware of the tragedy? Her heart twisted painfully. Surely she, who had brought him forth into this world, would feel the rending of his life if he’d died.
Even Trevin’s broad shoulders seemed to slump a bit, as if he, too, were realizing how futile their search might be. He took Gwynn’s hand and led her toward the great hall. “Come. We’ll eat and rest, then I’ll make plans and find the boy.”
“You’ll make plans? You’ll find him?” she repeated, her eyes narrowing. “Make no mistake, m’lord, I will not be left behind. If there be a plan to save Gareth I will be a part of it.”
“It may be dangerous-”
“Think you I care? We are talking about Gareth, Trevin. My son!”
“And mine.”
The door to the great hall opened as they climbed the stairs. Inside the interior was lit with hundreds of candles and wall sconces. A huge fire in the grate crackled and popped, giving off warm golden light that reflected on the whitewashed walls and caught in Trevin’s eyes. For the first time in days, Gwynn felt warmth against her skin.
Servants scurried about, knights stood at their stations, pages walked swiftly along the corridors. Already a table was being prepared with wine, apples, cheese, and loaves of wastel.
“I knew not when ye’d be back, m’lord,” a man with great jowls and silvering hair said. “If ye but give me a few minutes, I will have a feast for ye the likes of which ye haven’t seen since the Christmas Revels.”
Trevin waved off the man’s concerns. “Do not worry, James,” he said as he held a chair for Gwynn positioned next to his upon a raised dais. Gratefully she sank onto the seat. “As hungry as we are, we will eat what you’ve prepared and think it the best in all of Wales.”
The cook’s chest puffed up in pride. “’Twill be, I swear. But for now, please, enjoy this bit of nothing, then rest a little. By the time ye’ve slept and changed, well… all will be ready.” He clapped his hands and several pages scurried out of the great hall through a back door. “I’ve already ordered water heated and hauled to your chamber as well as to the lady’s room.”
“Good, good.” Trevin settled into his chair—the lord’s chair—a carved oaken piece that she suspected had belonged to the previous baron. He leaned low on his spine and sliced cheese, apples, and bread, which he offered to her. As they ate and drank wine, Trevin listened attentively to problems that had occurred in the keep. The master builder was concerned about the wattle and daub walls being washed with lime, the carpenter was unhappy with his latest apprentice, the steward was certain that someone in the kitchen was stealing spices, and the armorer was worried that there wasn’t enough steel to make the weapons that were sorely needed. There were other squabbles as well, but Gwynn hardly listened as she bit into a slice of tart apple. She was too tired to think of anything but her lost son and his rogue of a father.
Trevin would forever be a mystery to her. An accomplished outlaw, he could steal a man’s horse from beneath his nose. A reluctant ruler, he nonetheless listened to the troubles and problems within the castle walls with a just ear and clever mind. A considerate lover, he could make her think of nothing save the touch and feel of him. And now, his new role, that of father, one he seemed to savor.
As men and woman from the castle stopped in to welcome him back, meet the lady, or give him news, gossip, and complaints about the travails of Black Oak, Trevin listened, though he, too, appeared anxious, his skin tight over his cheekbones, his lips thin and bracketed with deep grooves.
Gwynn couldn’t help but stare at him. How had she come to care for a man she didn’t trust, didn’t really know? Why did her silly pulse leap each time he looked her way? Did she not have enough problems, worrying about Gareth’s safety? She could not, would not, be distracted by this outlaw baron. Yet, she couldn’t help but appraise him from beneath the sweep of her lashes.
Aye, he was a handsome man. His hair, black as night, fell fetchingly over eyes the shade of a summer sky near dusk. His skin was dark, as was Gareth’s, and his smile, when he reluctantly offered it, was a crooked slash of white that had, she supposed, melted the hearts of many a maid. Had not she herself been blinded by his black-hearted charm? Had she not let him undress her and touch her and kiss her in places only a husband should know of?
She felt a blush steal up her neck and in that moment, Trevin glanced in her direction, his eyes holding hers for half a heartbeat. Her lungs were suddenly too tight, her breath lost somewhere in the back of her throat. ‘Twas as if, in that single instant, he could read her mind and see the wanton path of her thoughts.
She turned her attention to a loaf of white bread and sliced off a slab. What was wrong with her? She couldn’t be around him without thinking of their lovemaking. Even riding in the saddle, watching his stiff back as he sat astride Webb’s stallion, she was reminded of his touch. Between Gareth’s whereabouts and Trevin’s kiss, she thought of little else.
Conscious that he was watching her, she slathered her wastel with butter, then drizzled honey over the slice. What was she thinking? She couldn’t allow images of Trevin’s body to distract her. All she should be considering was the safety of her son. Nothing else mattered. By the time she’d finished the bread, her fingers were sticky and she licked them, only to notice Trevin’s eyes regarding her in silent amusement. Embarrassed, she accepted the wet cloth and bowl of warm water from a page and refused to meet the glimmer in his gaze.
After more apologies and promises from the cook of a feast “like no other ye’ve ever seen” to be prepared for a later meal, Gwynn was shown to a chamber near the priest’s quarters. A fire had been lit, the room was warm, and a tub of water with lavender scented steam rising from it had been placed near the foot of the bed.
The bath looked like pure heaven.
A gap-toothed girl with red ringlets and freckles bridging a pert nose was wringing her hands near the tub. “I’m to bathe ye, m’lady,” she said with a curtsy she hadn’t yet perfected. “Me name’s Hildy and if there’s anything ye need, ye’re but to ask me.”
“Thank you.” Gwynn decided to make a friend of this silly lass who seemed as if she’d never attended to a lady before. Though she knew she should insist upon being with Trevin every instant, demand to be a part of any plans he had to save Gareth, she couldn’t resist the thought of fragrant, warm water running over her skin. With Hildy’s help she stripped off her dirty clothes and, sighing in contentment, settled into the hot water.
“Oooh, I’ve longed for this,” she admitted. Her skin tingled and she used the scented soap to clean her hair and fingernails. As the moist heat enveloped her, she was reminded of her last cleansing and Trevin coming upon her while she bathed in the creek. All too vividly she remembered the magic of his lips and how possessively his hands had been on her body when he’d kissed her so intimately.
The silly little maid clucked on, talking about everything and nothing all at once. “The baron, Lord Trevin, I, um, I think he’s a good man no matter what some of ‘em say.”
“And what is that?” Gwynn asked, rotating her neck.
“Well, y’know, that ‘e killed Baron Dryw just to keep the castle and he married Lady Faith to make certain that ‘e didn’t lose it. ‘Tis a pity about her, fer she loved ‘im, that she did. Never believed that ‘e killed her father and always ‘oped that ‘ed’ learn to love ‘er back, poor thing?”
“He loved not his wife?” Suddenly the twit had all of Gwynn’s attention.
“Who knows?” Hildy lathered Gwynn’s hair with fingers that were surprisingly strong. “She didn’t think so and that was what mattered.”
“But still she loved him?”
“With all her poor ‘eart.” Hildy took a pitcher from the shelf near the fire and filled it with water from the tub. Slowly she poured it over Gwynn’s soapy curls. “She thought that bearing ‘im a babe would turn his ‘eart to her, she did, but then, ah, well, the baby came backwards and the midwife couldn’t save it—a girl, Alison, they named ‘er. Lady Faith-” Hildy cleared her throat and blinked rapidly “-she… she bled to death still ‘oldin’ the poor dead little lass in ‘er arms. ‘Twas pitiful.” She took the time to make the sign of the cross over her breasts and water from her hands sprayed and dripped with her rapid movements.
“Yes… yes, it was,” Gwynn agreed, horrified by the story but touched by Hildy’s adoration of Trevin’s wife.
“The baron, ‘e blamed ‘imself, if ye ask me.”
“Why?”
“Because ‘twas the bloody truth.” Hildy lowered her voice as she wrung the water from Gwynn’s hair. “’E never loved Lady Faith, you could see it in his eyes. If ye ask me ‘e’s not capable of love. ‘E’s a looker, aye, and a decent man most of the time, I s’pose but ‘e’s got a heart of stone, that one, I pity any woman who’s foolish enough to give ‘im ‘er ‘eart.”
“So do I,” Gwynn admitted.
“When Faith and the baby died, ‘e… well, ‘e became well, ‘e became even more unhappy, or so it seems.” She glanced up at Gwynn. “I tell ye, sometimes I think there be a curse cast upon Black Oak.” Shaking her head, Hildy stacked towels on a stool near the tub. “I’ll be right back, m’lady,” she said as she made her way to the door. “The Baron’s ordered ye clean clothes.”
“Kind of him,” Gwynn said under her breath. She bathed as the water cooled, closing her eyes as Hildy came and went, laying out dresses upon the bed, then cleaning Gwynn’s shoes and boots with a smooth cloth before setting them near the hearth to dry. A dozen scented candles burned, the fire crackled, and Gwynn, for the first time in days, felt a sense of contentment. If only Gareth were here and safe, she could find some peace here at Black Oak.
With Trevin? Peace? Remember, he’s an outlaw—some think a killer. All he wants from you is your son. Nothing more. You are only the woman who brought forth his heir. She didn’t want to believe her nasty thoughts. Had Trevin not loved her thoroughly the night before, giving rather than taking, offering pleasure rather than demanding it? Because he wants you to trust him, to fall into his trap of seduction, so that you’ll be lulled into the very sense of peace you’re experiencing. Don’t be fooled, Gwynn. Don’t let any man manipulate you again, especially not a rogue like Trevin of Black Oak Hall. Remember what Hildy said—that he was incapable of love, that he didn’t even love his wife.
But then had she loved either of her husbands?
The water finally grew tepid and reluctantly Gwynn toweled off before choosing a lacy chemise and a velvet and brocade gown the color of wine. The dress was heavy but warm as it hugged her breasts and fitted easily over her hips before sweeping the floor.
“’Tis beautiful ye be, lady,” Hildy said in awe as she wound ribbons through Gwynn’s still-damp hair.
“Did this dress belong to the lord’s wife?”
“Aye.” Hildy handed her a braided silver belt that slid easily around Gwynn’s waist, then stepped back, clasped her hands together, and sighed. “The lady never wore it as she was with child during the time it was sewn and then, poor dear-” Again Hildy deftly made the sign of the cross over her own chest. “She had the babe and died. ‘Twas a pity, sure and simple. She was a kind one, was Lady Faith. True of spirit and soul. She was there that day, y’know, the day that her father fell to this death.”
“She was?” Gwynn asked, cringing at her own curiosity.
“Aye, walking through the gardens. Lord Dryw and Sir Trevin were up on the wall walk, arguing loudly, and then, suddenly, it looked as if they ‘ad come to blows and the baron pitched over the edge, right through the crenels and landed in the bailey just short of the old well.” She shook her head and scowled, then crossed herself yet again. “’Twas a sad day for all of us.”
“Sir Trevin was with the baron?” Gwynn clarified.
“Aye.” Hildy nodded her head and her springy curls danced around her face. “But ‘e did not kill the lord. E did not. ‘Twas an accident.” She was arguing with herself, as if it was she, not Gwynn, who needed convincing. “Even Lady Faith, she believed him, elsewise would she have married the man who killed her father? I think not.”
“You saw the accident?” Gwynn asked, swallowing hard.
“With me own two eyes. First the lords were talkin’, then arguin’, then fightin’, y’know, kind of shovin’ each other, and then… then the baron he cursed. Sir Trevin, told ‘im, ‘e’d see ‘im in ‘ell. Then… then…” Hildy’s breathing grew uneven, her eyes focused on a distant image only she could see. “Then he tumbled through the crenels and let out a horrible scream.” Closing her eyes, she shuddered as if she could feel the thud of the body as it landed. “’Twas awful, m’lady.”
“It sounds so.”
“Lady Faith, she… she never got over it, but married Trevin anyway. Cursed, I tell ye. We all be cursed by a hex that no one can break.”
“Hexes are meant to be broken,” Gwynn said, as much to appease the superstitious girl as anything.
“Not ‘ere at Black Oak. I know. I’ve been ‘ere since me poor ma birthed me and I’ve seen death and ghosts.”
“Ghosts?”
Hildy nodded. “Aye. They walk the curtain walls and I’ve thought ‘twas one of them undead who shoved the baron to ‘is death. The devil, ‘e never sleeps, ye know.”
“I’ve heard,” Gwynn said dryly.
“Yea, and sometimes methinks ‘e lives in the very dungeons of Black Oak. Why else would Baron Dryw’s life be taken or Lady Faith’s? And little Alison, why should she not be born to grow up, eh?” She cleared her throat. “The baron, Lord Trevin, there isn’t a day ‘e be ‘ere at the castle that ‘e doesn’t visit the grave.”
“Of his daughter?” Gwynn shivered.
“And ‘is wife. ‘E may not have loved ‘er while she walked this earth, but now, me thinks, ‘e misses ‘er sorely. Oh, ‘tis a sorry lot we be, ‘ere at Black Oak.” She sniffed loudly, then asked, “Think ye that ye can lift the hex that’s been placed on us all?”
“Me?”
“I’ve seen yer ‘erbs, m’lady, and there is a rumor about that the mistress of Rhydd is a sorceress.”
“I claim not to be anything of the kind.”
“But ye will ‘elp us, won’t ye?” She bit her lower lip and kept her gaze fixed on the floor. “Ye see, ‘tis not just fer meself I ask, but fer the babe within me.” She rubbed her belly with gentle hands. “I be with child.” She smiled and blinked. “But I ‘ave no ‘usband and I pray that the curse of Black Oak is upon me not. I… I would not want to lose my babe as Lady Faith did.”
“You will not. You are young and strong.”
Hildy shuddered inwardly and shook her head, tossing the curls about her face. “’Tis not enough. There ‘ave been three babes born this year past who ‘ave not breathed a breath of life. Others ‘ave died in their cradles, not yet seeing their first summer.” She was pale as a new moon. “I want only the best for my little one. Surely ye, a mother, can understand.”
“Aye.” Of course she could.
“Then, please, m’lady, use whatever magic you ‘ave to put an end to the bad spell cast over this keep.”
“I-I’ll try. But I cannot promise ‘twill work.”
“’Tis enough,” Hildy said, brightening.
Shaken, Gwynn smoothed the folds of Lady Faith’s dress. Not only was she wearing another woman’s gown, but had kissed that woman’s man as if he were her husband. She felt suddenly like a traitor to a ghost she’d never known in life. The story Hildy had spoken was bone-chilling and yet she had to know more about Black Oak and Trevin, the father of her child. “So tell me,” she encouraged as she stepped into a new pair of boots that Hildy had scrounged up, “of Muir.”
“Oh, ‘im!” Hildy waved a hand in the air. “No one knows if ‘e’s a sorcerer or nay. True, ‘e seems to see things out of that bad eye of ‘is and some of ‘is spells appear to work, but then there’s times when ‘e’s in a stupor and doesn’t make a lot of sense, if ye ask me. ‘E and the baron, well, they go way back, came ‘ere together, they did, but to me way of thinkin’ Muir’s just plain odd. ‘E didn’t bother castin’ any spells to scare away the curse, let me tell ye.”
“You don’t trust him?” Gwynn asked.
“Oh, ‘e ‘as a good enough ‘eart, I s’pose, but ‘alf the time methinks ‘e’s as daft as the town idiot.”
This was the man in whom Trevin had entrusted Gareth’s life? But then what did Hildy really know?
They talked on and Gwynn rested a little, dozing off on another woman’s bed before a knock on the door signified that dinner was ready. “I’ll be ‘ere to serve ye, m’lady,” Hildy said as Gwynn started for the door. “Lord Trevin asked me to be yer personal maid during your visit.”
“’Twill be short, I’m afraid.”
The girl’s sweet face folded in upon itself. “But the baron, ‘e said ye’d be stayin’ a fortnight or so-”
“Did he?” Gwynn gathered her skirts in one hand. “Well, he was mistaken. I’ll be leaving soon to look for my son.” She swept through the door and silently added, And no one, not God himself, or the damned baron of Black Oak is going to stop me!
Hurrying along the corridor, causing the candles to flicker and smoke as she passed, Gwynn startled a cat who let out a yowl and scrambled out of her path. Down the stairs to the great hall where Trevin was already seated, she flew. He lifted his gaze at the sound of her steps and for the span of a short breath she was caught in the seductive blue of his eyes. Her feet faltered a step, her willful heart hammered a quick double-time for a second. A knight, the blond one known as Stephen, helped her to the main table.
Most of the guests were seated upon benches positioned at an angle below the dais supporting the main table. Heads turned toward her and curious sets of eyes watched her as she took a seat next to Trevin’s.
“My lady,” he said with a cock of one dark, insolent brow. “’Tis breathtaking, how you look.”
She flushed and lifted her chin. “Thank you, my lord.” Smothering a smile, she added, “May I say the same to you?”
He snorted a laugh. “You may, Lady Gwynn, do anything you wish.” His smile was positively wicked and her stupid heart pounded even more wildly. His hair was freshly washed and attempted to curl, his square jaw freshly shaven, his eyes dancing a mischievous blue in the candlelight. He wore fresh clothes, all black, trimmed in leather and studded with silver. He looked dark, dangerous, and more outlaw than baron.
“The dress suits you,” he said.
“Does it?” She cleared her throat and was lucky to find her voice. “’Tis the first thing here that does,” she teased wondering why she would bother to flirt with him. She eyed their guests but aside from a few curious glances, no one seemed to be unduly interested in them or their conversation.
One side of Trevin’s sensual mouth lifted. “Hildy did not please you?”
“Nay, she’s a good lass, but-”
“The chamber was not to your liking?”
“The room was fine, but I’ll not be a prisoner here, m’lord.”
“Never.”
A page filled their cups with wine.
“Good, then I’ll be able to leave at will and search for Gareth.”
He didn’t reply as the cook, James, chose, that moment to enter, leading servants with heavy platters of food. He’d not been lying about a feast of the highest order. Trenchers of brawn, pheasant and gravy, salmon, heron and eggs, tarts and pies, and a stuffed peacock with his quills attached were carried to the head table. Again, Gwynn shared a trencher with Trevin and was treated as if she were, indeed, Mistress of Black Oak Hall. Serving maids and pages attended to her every need, bringing her warm wet cloths to clean her fingers, offering her wine or ale, asking if she would prefer salmon to eel or peacock to pigeon. As quickly as she finished eating one course, another, as savory as the last, was brought in.
Trevin ate heartily, as if he’d not seen food in the span of a full moon, and she, though worried sick about her son, couldn’t resist the scents of spices and the taste of hot, fresh food.
Musicians played and acrobats performed as if the meal were a special event and most of the guests seemed genuinely glad for Trevin’s safe return. Yet, behind the smiles and good cheer, lurking in the shadowy corners of the castle, buried just below the surface of the jubilation, Gwynn sensed a current, an invisible stream, of ill will. Not all in the castle seemed to trust their lord. Gwynn, as she picked at a joint of venison, wondered at the strain she sensed existed within the ancient walls of Black Oak. ‘Twas almost as if the ghost of old Baron Dryw hid in the darkest corners of the keep.
A shiver, soft as the footsteps of a specter, climbed up her spine. She told herself that she was being silly, that Hildy’s claims of curses and ghosts had colored her feelings for the castle, but she couldn’t shake the sensation that something was wrong, very wrong, at Black Oak Hall.
After the meal, as pages were clearing the tables and the dogs were scrounging for scraps that had fallen into the rushes, Trevin remained in his chair and spoke with those who worked and lived under his rule. There seemed no rules about who could approach him. Everyone from the hound master who had lost his best bitch to illness, to the beekeeper who was concerned about the size of the straw skeps, appeared to need a word with him.
There were those who kept their distance, of course, and Gwynn wondered if they were the men and women who did not trust him, who thought him to be a thief, a cheat, and a murderer. How many knights and soldiers thought him the killer of Lord Dryw? Would they take up their swords against him or steal into his room in the dark of night to slit his throat?
She shuddered at the thought, but glanced at him again. A strong, agile man, he was all sinew and bone, muscle and fierce determination. Surely he could see to his own safety.
He turned, his eyes catching hers for an instant, and she looked quickly away, embarrassed at her wayward thoughts. The disturbing part of her own inner struggle was that she was beginning to care for the thief, not only because he was the father of her child, but because there was a part of him that touched her in a way no other man had. ‘Twas foolish, of course. Feeling anything for him other than suspicion was dangerous. As Hildy had warned, Trevin of Black Oak was not the kind of man to whom a woman should be losing her heart.
But, curse it all, she was.