CHAPTER Five
Curse and rot his foolish hide, where the devil was Trevin? Muir paced through the mist, his good eye trained to the east, his patience wearing as thin as the dew-soaked spiderwebs glistening with the coming of the dawn. Three nights he’d waited, two long days, expecting Trevin to appear, only to be disappointed and stuck with the lad and his incessant questions.
“Why must we wait for him?”
“Is he naught but a murdering thief?”
“What does he want with me?”
“Come, old man, let us be off.”
Chatter, chatter, chatter coupled with the half-grown hound’s yipping caused Muir’s head to pound. The dog was always running off chasing birds and rodents and anything that dared moved within his earshot. Oh, ‘twas a pitiful lot old Muir had been handed and not a drop of ale or wine to help ease his burden.
“So where is this thief-baron?” Gareth asked, stretching his gangly arms over his head and blinking from recent sleep. The damned cur was beside him, yawning and showing off clean white fangs.
“He’ll be here.” Or would he? Had he not said wait but two days?”
Gareth scowled. “How do you know?”
“Because he keeps his word.”
“Oh, I’ll just wager he does. The murdering, thieving, cheater who stole his castle from a half-daft old man? He keeps his word?” Gareth shook the dust from his hair. “Bah!”
“Ye must have faith, boy.”
“Why?” I needs be off.”
“Do ye now?” And what will keep ye from fallin’ arse over crown into the hands of Baron Ian’s soldiers?”
“I fear them not,” Gareth said boldly.
“Then a fool ye be, for they’d just as soon slit your throat as speak with ye.”
The boy had the brains to shudder and look over his shoulder as if he expected the soldiers of Rhydd to be hiding in the thicket of oak trees guarding a small pond. Oh, he was like his father, he was, and, a bit like his grandfather though that thought rankled Muir and, as always, he held his tongue. Trevin’s ancestry was a secret he would keep with him to the grave.
Muir had raised Trevin from a babe, taught him the ways of the streets, turned his blind eye as all too easily Trevin had learned how to slide a penny out of a rich man’s purse. As a lad, he’d asked often enough about his mother, but Muir had kept his promise and had lied to the boy, telling him he knew not who had borne or spawned him, that Trevin, as a swaddled babe, had been left on the doorsteps of his hut. Over the years, as Trevin had grown working as a stable boy before he’d decided thievery was an easier lot, he’d quit questioning his birth.
So now, what to do? Muir and the boy could not stay here much longer. The lad and pup were growing restless, the horse needed more feed than the forest offered and the few stores he had with him—smoked meat and bread—were about gone. Eventually, should they stay, they would be discovered. However, they could not return to Black Oak for a while for fear they might encounter Ian of Rhydd’s soldiers along the road.
He considered using a spell or two, then discarded the idea. What he really needed was a cup of ale. Mayhap more than one.
The sun peeked over the eastern hills, sending forth a blaze of light that burned through the mist and caused long shadows to fall over the damp ground. Muir took the sunlight as a good omen. They would wait one more day and then, by the gods, they would break camp.
And go where?
For the love of Myrddin, ‘twas a vexation.
In the middle of the first night, wearing the colors of Rhydd, Trevin had let his horse lag behind the rest of the mounted soldiers, then turned his steed into the forest. He’d ridden far to the east following the course of the river, crossing the swift-moving current where the waters were shallow. Once on the far bank, he’d avoided the main roads, traveling on deer trails and shepherd’s paths that slashed through the hills and cut into the dense forests.
He’d urged his horse onward mostly at night, hidden and rested his steed during the middle of the day and used his own sense of direction as well as the pale light of the moon and stars whenever the heavens were clear.
Finally, convinced that he’d created a cold, endless trail for his enemies, he’d forced his horse to swim across the river against a few miles downstream from the cave.
He’d hoped to miss the search party. However, the new Baron of Rhydd’s soldiers were nothing if not dogged. They had not given up their search. Twice Trevin had spied groups of warriors, search parties of trained huntsmen and hounds who had fanned through the forest. The dogs had galloped wildly, sniffed, bayed, and turned in circles of confusion, causing their keepers to order them onward and snap whips at their backsides. Each time Trevin had eluded his pursuers, but his luck would not hold forever and, he feared, Ian of Rhydd would never give up.
Now, ‘twas dusk again and, with his stomach growling from lack of food, he’d renewed his journey. He had to make his way to the cave and find his boy. Ian had not had enough time to mount a siege of Black Oak Castle, but ‘twas only a matter of days.
What if Muir had not found Gareth? What if the boy was again in Ian’s cruel hands? What of Gwynn? Had she escaped the walls of Rhydd or was she again facing the brute who was her husband? Trevin’s back teeth ground together at the thought of Ian’s hand slapping her, his foul mouth kissing her. Though Gwynn was legally Ian’s wife, Trevin couldn’t accept the thought of the older man bedding her.
‘Twas he who should make love to her as he had in the past. ‘Twas he who should feel her lips move sensually upon his skin, he who should taste the sweetness of her and watch her silver-green eyes widen as he entered her. Ah, sweet Christ, how he would love to entwine his body with hers.
Bitterly he thought that laying with her might be a way of savoring a dark revenge against Ian, but he discarded the idea quickly. Though Gwynn was no saint, he would not use her so cruelly. Nor did he dare care for her. He’d make a vow… Did Gwynn not lay with you for her own purposes?
He swore under his breath. Gwynn, damn her, was sinful vexation! Where was she and how had she, in so few hours, become his concern? ‘Twas his boy he was after, not the woman who bore him. Yet she filled his thoughts, day and night. Be careful.
For years he’d considered her spoiled and vain. Hadn’t she bargained and lain with him to bear a child and pass the boy off as Roderick’s to save her own pretty neck? Beautiful, she’d been, and passionate. The days and nights lying with her had been pure heaven though she’d been coldly plotting to achieve that which suited her.
The years, rather than ravage her beauty, had been kind and bestowed upon her a depth, a nobility, that he hadn’t expected to find. No longer was she a scheming vixen. She appeared to be willing to do anything, even marry Ian of Rhydd to save her son—his son—from the hangman’s noose. As beautiful as ever, she now possessed a spark of pride that he couldn’t trust. Nor did he want to.
His dark thoughts chased through his head as he turned onto a little-used road leading through thickets of bare-branched trees to an old, abandoned mill he’d used as a lair when once, long ago, he’d been an outlaw. A smile toyed upon the corners of his lips for he missed those bawdy irreverent days when he along with others much like him had banded together. He was much better suited as a criminal than a nobleman, he thought and wondered at the turn of events that had led him to rule Black Oak Hall. ‘Twas a joke.
He drew up the reins and his horse slowed near a stream that splashed over rocks and pooled near the ruins of a toppled stone tower. A rotted water wheel moved listlessly, broken paddles causing the axle to creak and lurch as it turned slowly with the current.
“…and keep him safe.”
Gwynn’s voice floated on the breeze as if from a dream.
Trevin slid out of his saddle quietly and, leading his horse made his way through a patch of undergrowth to a shady glen where Gwynn, her back to him, drew the three-clawed rune that looked like a rooster’s foot, then tossed dust into the gathering darkness. A small twig of mistletoe—an herb for protection—was laid at the base of an ash tree.
Christ Jesus, she was beautiful.
In the coming night, the wind caught in her skirts and played with the long, fiery strands of hair that had escaped her hood. She turned her face to the sky and murmured words he didn’t understand from lips he’d kissed so long ago, lips he’d never forgotten. He’d heard from his spies at Rhydd that she’d practiced the dark arts she’d learned from old Idelle, but until this moment, he hadn’t believed the rumors.
She fell to her knees and bent her head, whispering a prayer to the Christian God over her pagan scratchings in the dirt.
His lungs constricted, as they seemed to each time he looked upon her. As he watched, her lips moved soundlessly yet he knew she was praying for the safety of their child. A boy who was not with her. Pagan rites and Christian prayers, whatever was necessary to keep Gareth safe.
Her mount, a sorry-looking beast favoring his right foreleg, flickered his dark ears then let out a whinny. Gwynn turned quickly, her face set as she reached to her belt where a small dagger was sheathed. “Who goes there?”
“Shh.”
Her eyes widened in fear for a second before they found his. “For the love of God, Trevin, you nearly scared the life out of me! You wear the colors of Rhydd.” Relief stole over her features. “I thought you were one of Ian’s men.”
“’Tis but my disguise for my escape.”
“So you are alone?”
“Aye.”
“Where’s Gareth?” she asked hopefully.
Trevin’s stomach tightened into knots. “I had hoped he be with you.”
“Nay,” she said and again worry caused lines to purse her lips and etch her forehead.
“Have you not seen an old magician in the forest?”
“Magician?”
“Yea, a sorcerer who has little hair, a thick white beard, one good eye, and a lust for wine.”
Slowly she shook her head and her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Tell me not that you are trusting this… this drunk of a wizard with my son’s life.”
“Gareth will be safe with Muir.”
“Oh, for the love of all that is holy!” She threw up her hands and stared at the dark heavens as if hoping for divine intervention. Her cheeks were a sweet pink hue, her lips darker still. He felt an unwanted tightening in his groin and silently called himself every kind of fool. “’Tis a madman you are, Trevin of Black Oak,” she chastised with a tired sigh. “An old man with one eye and a need for drink?”
“A good man he is.”
“Aye, and probably spends his days trying to turn water into wine.”
“I think he leaves that for the Son of God,” Trevin replied without hiding any of his sarcasm. “And who be you to judge, lady. Did I not catch you chanting a spell?”
“For Gareth’s safety.”
“Aye.”
“And for my horse who is lame,” she said with a scowl. “I bought him from a farmer who assured me he was sound, but—”
“Let me look.” Trevin approached the animal and watched the gelding’s muscles quiver and ears flatten in distrust. “’Tis all right,” he said softly and ran practiced hands over the beast’s muscles, encouraging the bay to lift his leg. The horse snorted, but complied.
In the darkness, Trevin bent the animal’s leg and caught it between his thighs. Gently prodding, he found a stone, lodged deep in the center of the gelding’s hoof and as he touched the embedded pebble, the horse let out a whinny of pain and tried to pull away. “Don’t move, you beast,” Trevin commanded, but could not dislodge the sharp little rock.
“’Twill have to wait till morn,” he said as he allowed the palfrey to stand on its own again.
“We cannot. We must find Gareth.”
“With a lame horse?”
“If we must walk—”
Voices, muted and distant, reached him. As quickly as lightning striking, he grabbed Gwynn and clamped a hand over her mouth.
“Wha—” She struggled against him until she, too, heard the thud of hooves and jangling bridles that rippled through the forest. Gwynn froze. All protests died on her lips. Through her small body, he felt her heart pounding in fear.
Torches winked with an eerie golden light from the main road, two single rows of eight flames blinking behind the trees, but moving ever steadily toward the old mill.
“Come,” he whispered into her ear.
In silent agreement, they took up the reins of both their mounts and dashed swiftly through the creek. The horses splashed but didn’t give out a betraying neigh. Water, cold as a January snow seeped through his boots and worry gnawed deep at his soul. He would not let them find her, would die rather than let her be taken by Ian of Rhydd’s men.
That thought jolted him. Why did he care? Aye, she was Gareth’s mother, but nothing more. Comely, yes. Smart, aye, but worth giving up his life?
Gwynn slipped but didn’t cry out.
Trevin caught her arm before she fell and was completely immersed. He didn’t let go, but pulled her through the water and helped her up the slick mud of the far bank.
Noiselessly they ducked into a dense copse of pine trees just as the small company of soldiers reached the clearing surrounding the mill.
“We’ll camp here,” a strong male voice that caused Trevin’s innards to congeal ordered. Webb, huge and imposing, swung off the back of a sturdy black destrier with a crooked blaze. Landing with a curse, Webb limped to the gaping door of the mill and rubbed his arm. “Bastard of a boy. I can’t wait to get me hands on that one.”
Beside Trevin, Gwynn tensed, her face as pale as death.
“He’ll learn who to slice with a sword or the devil will take my soul,” Webb vowed.
Gwynn gasped and would have jumped forward to defend her son, but once again Trevin held her fast. One hand clamped on her lips, his other arm banded her body as she strained against him. “Later,” he mouthed against her ear, for he understood her need to do bodily damage to the man who threatened their child. ‘Twas all Trevin could do to restrain himself and the furious woman in his arms. “Leave him to me.” His lips curled, his eyes slitted, and every muscle in his body coiled as if for a fight. He would have liked nothing better than to slam his fist into Webb’s ugly jaw, but now was not the time.
Patience, as ever, was a virtue.
Carrying a torch aloft, Webb hitched himself into the mill. Trevin tracked his enemy’s movements within the building by the shafts of light that spilled through the cracks in the mortar and the few windows.
The small army was going to settle for the night. Soon all but a sentry or two would be asleep. “Come,” Trevin whispered into Gwynn’s ear and, thank the saints, for once she obeyed.
He led her and the horse along a dark trail away from the clearing and up a steep hill. As night settled around them and the dense forest grew black as pitch, they plodded slowly, inching their way forward through overgrown branches or stumbling over exposed roots and mole holes. Winding ever upward, the path was steep and Gwynn’s gelding plodded reluctantly, limping on his forelog and pulling against the bit.
“We must make our leave,” Trevin said as they reached a knoll unfettered by trees. Wind raced across the hill, bending the grass, smelling of rain. “But we go too slowly afoot, your horse is a lame and my mount is tired.” He rubbed his chin as a plan formed in his mind. ‘Twas a risk, but one worth the price. He smiled to himself. “I think it best if we borrow a few horses from Sir Webb.”
“What?” Gwynn said and in the moonlight he saw her beautiful eyes round as she understood his meaning. “Nay, Trevin, ‘tis too dangerous. Webb would like nothing better than to have the excuse and opportunity to kill you.”
“I thought you wanted to slit his throat yourself.”
“I would if I could save Gareth, but Ian will only send more men and then, I, too, would be found guilty of murder.” She scowled in the darkness, her face puckering in worry. Aye, she was as beautiful as a goddess and just as scheming.
“No harm will come to my son,” Trevin pledged. “Trust me.” He handed her the reins of his horse and slid the bridle from the lame gelding’s head. “Release this one,” he ordered, “and ride mine ever south. I will catch up with you.”
“No, I don’t—”
“Listen, woman, ‘tis our only chance.”
“And if you do not return?” Her chin jutted proudly forward, her eyes held his. Oh, how he wanted to reach forward and stroke the smooth skin stretched upon her jaw, but he didn’t. He had no time to lose himself in her, no time to contemplate his baffling fate of caring for her, no time to think of a promise he’d made long ago, to another woman.
“I will be back.”
“Brave words from a foolish man. What happens if you are captured?” Her chin wobbled slightly, as if she were afraid for him, as if she cared a bit. But surely he was imagining things; she thought only of herself and her boy. “How shall I find this Muir and my son?” she asked sharply.
“Muir and Gareth will find you.”
“So now I am to trust some half-blind drunken sorcerer and a boy.”
“Nay,” he said and gave into a foolish impulse. Though he knew it was a mistake, his arms folded around Ian of Rhydd’s bride and he lowered his head, his chilled lips claiming hers in a kiss that brought back memories from another time, another place. She jerked back, only to sag against him and sigh, her resistance fleeing upon the wind. A tremor slid through his body and desire, unwanted and wild, stormed through his blood. He pulled her roughly to him and kissed her until his head was spinning. “You are to trust only me, m’lady,” he said into her open mouth. “Only me.” He released her swiftly and she nearly fell. Dear God, what had he been thinking?
“Trevin—?”
He turned on his heel. “I will find you,” he promised and damned himself. Memories crowded into his mind.
Vow to me, Trevin, that you’ll never love another woman. Swear it. His dying wife’s words haunted him still.
His response rang hollowly through his soul. I swear. On my life, Faith. I will never love another.
By the time Trevin reached the encampment, the torches had burned low. Two soldiers guarded the tethered horses and though he’d hoped to find the sentries asleep, they stood together, talking and joking and seeming as if they would never nod off. One was a burly man whose laughter was but a rasp, the other was gaunt and tall, the kind of man who was little more than a skeleton sprinkled with a few pounds of flesh and skin. He held the other guard’s attention, telling bawdy tales that came to Trevin ears in bits and pieces.
“…a sweet plump arse she had, that one… lifted her skirts for any man who would buy her a pint… her friend was a shrew, cackled like a mud hen…”
In the shadows of the trees Trevin slid his dagger from its sheath and held it between his teeth as he crept between the horses’ legs. His plan was simple: slide the bridle he’d brought with him over the head of the strongest of the lot, cut the line holding all the animals together, slap as many as possible on their rumps and as the steeds squealed, wheeled, and reared in panic, steal away in the ensuing melee. By the time all the beasts had been rounded up and it was discovered that one was missing, he and the horse would be long gone.
“…I tell ye, mate, a better little ride ye’d never find this side of…”
Smiling grimly to himself, Trevin found the horse he recognized as Webb’s charger—a strong black stallion with a crooked white slash running down his nose. Carefully, his gaze fastened on the two guards, Trevin laid a hand upon the destrier’s thick neck. Hot flesh quivered beneath a smooth coat. The horse sidestepped and snorted and Trevin ducked as one of the guards’ gaze swept toward him.
“Quiet,” the big man growled and for a few seconds there was no noise save the breathing and stomping of hooves. The charger shifted and a heavy hoof landed on the toe of Trevin’s boot. Pain screamed up his leg and he nearly dropped the knife from between his teeth.
An owl hooted and again the horse shifted. “Oh, bugger,” the guard said. “’Tis only a silly bird. One I’d shoot with me arrow, if ‘twerent so dark.” He turned back to the other sentry and slowly Trevin let out his breath. He was sweating, his muscles so tense they ached.
Without so much as the clink of the metal fasteners, he placed his bridle over the black’s head. The charger rolled a white-rimmed eye, snorted, and kicked. Another horse shrieked in pain.
“Say, wha—?”
Trevin didn’t wait. He grabbed the knife from his mouth. With one swift stroke, he severed the rope binding the herd together.
“Did ye hear somethin’?”
“Oh, Holy Christ!”
Trevin hoisted himself onto the black’s back. The horse reared. Other animals screamed, bucking and rearing. Tethers snapped. Leaning low on his mount, his head pounding. Trevin slapped several stallions on their rumps with his reins.
Hooves thundered.
Frightened neighs rang through the woods.
“Halt! Who goes—oh, fer the bloody love of Saint Peter!”
Horses scattered wildly. Hoofbeats rumbled through the forest. Branches snapped. The guards yelled.
Trevin clung to the back of the destrier, ducking low, heading him toward the creek.
“Sir Webb!”
“Wake, ye bloody fools!”
“What in the devil’s name?” Webb’s voice boomed through the night. “Get them! Damn it all to hell, catch them!”
Trevin spurred his mount toward the creek.
Horses shot through the trees.
Guards chased after them.
“Move, damn you!” Trevin ordered.
The charger took the stream in one leap. With a jarring thud he landed on the other side and tore up the hillside. Branches slapped at Trevin, the horse stumbled several times and shouts and frightened whinnies chased after them. “Come on you miserable scrap of horseflesh,” Trevin growled, hugging low, urging the beast forward and smiling to himself. “Run!”
“What the bloody hell happened?” Webb yelled, but his voice was muffled over the sound of the charger’s hoofbeats and heavy breathing. Trevin didn’t hear the response, but grinned grimly to himself at the thought of besting the man who had sworn to kill his son.
Gwynn glanced over her shoulder. It had been hours since Trevin had left her on his fool’s mission and her heart beat with a steady rhythm of doom. His silly plan could have turned against him; mayhap even now he was Webb’s prisoner, beaten and bloody, forced to reveal Gareth’s whereabouts. At the thought she clucked to the horse, forcing him from a slow walk to a quick trot. The moon was low, the air chilly with a wind that cut through her damp cloak and tunic. She’d met few travelers this night, only a lonely friar upon a donkey and a farmer driving a team of oxen struggling with a heavy wagon. Both meetings had been hours before, when darkness was new.
With icy fingers she touched her lips and remembered Trevin’s kiss, so hard and firm and hot. A deep ache settled far below her stomach and she called herself a dozen kinds of a fool for the sinful want only he seemed to be able to inspire within her. Whether she liked it or not, she was a wedded woman once again and though her marriage vows were falsely given in exchange for her son’s life, they were nonetheless considered sacred by God and church.
What foul luck she had.
Had she learned nothing in thirteen years? Her traitorous body even now remembered the touch and feel of a young thief’s hands. Hands that trembled as he stroked her breast, fingers that were warm and steady and knowing. Now that boy was a full-grown man, mayhap a murderer but surely the father of her only son. He was a man to avoid, an outlaw baron whose castle was stolen in a game of chance. Oh, wayward, wayward heart!
Far in the distance, hoofbeats rang through the night, as if the rider were trying to outrace Satan himself. Trevin. Surely he’d finally caught up with her. Or was it someone else? One of Ian’s men? A robber or other criminal escaping justice? Her mount was tired and she couldn’t outrun a fresh horse, nor would she want to if the rider proved to be Trevin, yet there was no place to hide, no cover of building, bridge, nor woods in this section of rutted road. Though the moon was but a slit behind thin clouds, the fields on either side stretched into the gloom.
From the sound, only one rider approached, so Gwynn pulled her hood and slid her dagger from its sheath. Should the lonely horseman be someone other than Trevin, she would be ready.
Glancing over her shoulder she saw a dark form approaching, a rider hunched over the shoulders of a huge destrier. The steed was mud-speckled and lathered and even in the darkness, Gwynn recognized Trevin’s tall shape. He rode easily, as if he’d spent his entire life upon such a magnificent animal.
Her stupid heart leapt and Trevin’s smile, a slash of white, caused an answering twitch in her own lips. Ah, he was handsome one, she couldn’t deny it. Even in the darkness, his eyes shone bright, his dark jaw was hard and square, and his shoulders wide and muscular. He drew back on the reins and his horse, blowing loudly, fell into step with hers. “Did I not tell you I would return?” he asked.
“Aye.”
“You doubted me.” His voice held a note of jest, as if he were pleased with himself.
“Always.”
“’Tis a mistake to underestimate me, Gwynn.” He let out a laugh that echoed across the barren fields. “Sir Webb discovered that tonight. Now, not only is he half-crippled—”
“That is Gareth’s doing.”
“Was it?” Trevin’s laughter again rippled across the night-shrouded countryside. “Good. Now, the dark knight has no horse.” Trevin patted his steed on his sweaty back.
“So Webb will be more determined than ever to find us and Gareth,” she said, failing to see any humor in the situation. “I’m afraid all you’ve done is make him a more treacherous enemy, Trevin. Now, ‘tis certain he will not rest until he’s captured our son.”
“He won’t get the chance,” Trevin assured her, but the smile fell from his face and his countenance turned fierce as a cornered wolf. Gwynn shivered as a gust of wind swept over the land and chilled her to her very soul.
God help us, she silently prayed, but felt the knell of doom ring deep in her heart.