Juliana Garnett (41 page)

Closing his eyes, Luc leaned his head back against the trunk of the tree that sheltered him. It was two days from the calends of May. Nights were still cool, but the days were warm and soft. He wore light mail, too tense to disarm, too restless to sleep. Round and round in his brain went the dread thought that his brother had once more betrayed him. This time, to Oswald and Adela. Before, to their father. God, why did he not merit love and loyalty from his own kin? There were times he thought himself cursed, for if not, his own father would not have disowned him in favor of another, would not have tried to betray him to William. And now Jean–Paul had taken the first chance to betray him again. Ceara was right. He should not have trusted him.

Now he was in a damnable position. If he did not discover
a way to free himself of this coil, he would be forced to retreat in order to save Ceara and Robert. But even then, there was no assurance that Oswald or Niall would not slay their hostages.

His hand curled into a fist on his knee. Curse it all, if only he had not worked so hard to make Wulfridge impervious to assault. It seemed that he had sealed his own fate, for now he could not take the castle. He had not guessed that one day he would find himself barred, and had secured every entrance. Not even a mole could get in.…

Luc sat up and opened his eyes. Ceara had said something not long ago, about the chambers beneath the castle. If animals had managed to get in, perhaps there was yet a way for men.

Rising, he moved swiftly to his men and kicked them gruffly awake. There was much to be done before light, and he could not waste a moment.

Groggily, Remy peered up at him, struggling to his feet. “I am awake, my lord.”

“Arm yourselves. Do you recall how we were garbed when I first took Wulfridge? Don similar garb now, and prepare to come with me.”

By the time they reached the slope beneath the castle, their feet and legs were wet from sloshing through tidal pools and high reeds. Surf crashed against the rocks. In the deep shadows, Luc searched for the pile of rubble he had cleared from one of the underground chambers. After Robert’s fall, he had explored several of them, and one had stretched much farther than the others. Perhaps all the way inside.

“My lord,” Remy muttered, stumbling over rocks, “is there a sign we should seek?”

“Most likely. But I do not know what it would be.”

Kerwin, Ceara’s former commander, suggested they search the lee side of the slope. “It is less steep there, my lord, and more likely to give us shelter from being seen.”

“No, this is the side that leads to the underground chambers.” Luc knelt, frustrated by the sudden sense of futility. How
could he find it when he did not know where to look? Time was running out. Soon it would be light, and Oswald’s men would see them. Any hope of surprise would be lost. Where was that cursed mist when he needed it? Sketchy moonlight poured through the ragged clouds overhead, far too revealing illumination for their purposes, forcing them to keep close to the shadows so as not to alert Oswald’s sentries on the ramparts above.

Crouched there in the dusky shadows, Luc strained his eyes to find anything that might indicate an opening. Then he blinked, for a shred of white fluttered for a moment in the fitful moonlight, and was gone. A trick of light. Yet his instincts led him in that direction, and he crept stealthily toward the brief flicker. Thankfully, the wash of the surf drowned out the slight clink his sword made against stone.

Suddenly a faint but familiar sound arrested him, and he paused. High, feeble, it seeped through the other night sounds, a familiar whine like that of a dog. Or a wolf.

Kerwin heard it, too, and said cautiously that there was something ahead on the slope. Luc scrabbled over rocks, and the moon peeked briefly from behind a cloud to shine dully on a small patch of white. He moved more swiftly now, not quite daring to whistle. Not quite daring to hope.

But when he drew close he saw that it
was
Sheba. She crawled on her belly, panting, white hair matted with something dark. He knelt beside her, and put out a hand to encounter wet, sticky fur. Blood. He recognized the smell and the feel immediately. Sheba whined, and he motioned for Remy and Kerwin, who stood looking gravely down at the animal.

“The wolf is wounded, my lord.” Kerwin’s voice was sober. “Does she still cling close to our lady?”

“Yes. She would never leave Ceara’s side willingly.”

“So they tried to slay her.”

Sheba’s wet tongue raked across Luc’s hand, and his lips tightened. “They have almost succeeded.”

“Do you think they threw her out here?”

“No, I think she managed to crawl this far. Now I know how she has been leaving the castle without us knowing it. She has found the hidden tunnel.” He stroked Sheba’s head, hating what he must ask of this valiant creature, but knowing no other way. “Ceara. Find her, Sheba. Ceara.”

The English words brought the wolf struggling to her feet. Luc touched her side, saw that the wound was deep and she had lost much blood. To use her now might kill her. Yet he must. Talking softly, stroking the great head, he urged her with gentle words, and Sheba staggered in a tight circle, whining.

After a moment, when he thought perhaps she was too weak to manage, the wolf turned up the slope. Luc moved beside her, supporting the animal as best he could while she moved with stumbling determination. Then he saw it in a sliver of moonlight, the slight crevice that offered entry. It looked barely large enough for a man to squeeze through. Hurriedly, Luc shoved aside some stones and slid inside. Dank air greeted him, but it was clearly the beginning of a tunnel. He looked over his shoulder.

“Remy, send the wolf back to camp with one of the men. I dare not risk her more, for she is weak and might give away our presence.”

One of the men held Sheba gingerly and Luc and the others crawled into the dark tunnel. They worked their way painfully up the steep, narrow incline, and several times Luc had to slide on his belly or pull himself along on his side to fit through.

It seemed to take much too long by his reckoning, so that he began to think the tunnel led nowhere and they had wasted valuable time. Then he saw a faint, thin splinter of light. It was dim, but a beacon nonetheless, and he crawled the rest of the way more quickly, holding his sword in his hands and sliding it over the jagged rocks to wriggle through the last narrow part. Behind him, he could hear the labored breathing of his men and knew they did the same. Remy was panting.

“M’lord … are we near? I fear me that … I cannot abide such … close quarters.…”

Luc laughed softly, exultant as he saw the clear shape of a wall sconce holding a torch. When he reached it, he paused to peer out cautiously. He recognized this as the corridor leading to the treasure vault, and it seemed to be empty. In a moment he was standing up again, relief at being free of confinement changing to grim determination now that he was once more in the castle. The worst was yet ahead of him. He must see how many of his loyal men still lived and free them, then open the gates before he dared look for Ceara. The castle must be secured.

Moving swiftly along the hallway, he kept close to the side and in the shadows, motioning his men to follow. They all knew what must be done. If God and fortune were with them, they would succeed.

Rounding a turn in the corridor, he saw a man’s body sprawled on the stone floor in a spreading pool of blood. He started to pass with little more than a glance, then stopped and turned back. In the same instant as Remy, he recognized the man, and knelt beside him.

“Alain.…”

“He lives, my lord. Look you, he is breathing.”

Alain’s chest rose and fell in rapid gasps. His eyelids fluttered, and one hand moved slightly. Luc bent close to hear him. “Lady … danger.…”

“Is she alive, Alain?”

Licking his lips, Alain grimaced, bubbles flecking his mouth with traces of blood. “Yes … but they have … her.”

“Where?” he demanded, but Alain had slipped back into unconsciousness.

Giving the squire into the care of one of the other men, Luc took the rest and continued down the corridor. Some of the torches had guttered, but enough were lit that he could see
evidence of enemy occupation. His lips tightened with fury at the havoc they had wreaked in such a short time.

Remy took two soldiers and moved to the prison cells to free any of Luc’s men kept there, while Luc took the other three and slipped toward the main hall. Just ahead loomed two guards, and he motioned silently. A moment later both guards had been dispatched, throats neatly slit from ear to ear. Luc looked up with a reckless grin.

Kerwin laughed softly. “The devil has been loosed again, my lord.”

Pockets of fighting could be heard, and Luc advanced toward them. They must strike hard and swift, for now that the element of surprise was gone, the advantage would rest with those best armed and most able. If Remy could not manage to get the gates open for his men, they may well die in these halls.

Sword lifted and ready, Luc and his small band stormed down the hall, dispatching any enemy in their way, bellowing war cries at the top of their lungs.

The fiercest fighting took place at the entrance to the great hall, where six men swarmed to meet them with fire in their eyes. Luc and the three men with him fought savagely. Kerwin waged battle with fierce energy, laying low those who opposed him with a strength that bespoke the power of a much younger man instead of this grizzled veteran. He was not a Saxon fighting against Saxon, but a man fighting for his lord and lands, and Luc knew he would not doubt his loyalty again.

They fought their way into the hall, and Luc stood panting just inside the entrance, surveying the damaged chamber quickly. At the far end stood Oswald and Jean-Paul, and the bitterness in Luc’s throat rose so hot and high that he thought for a moment he would choke on it. He held his bloody sword aloft, vengeance and hatred in his eyes as he approached the waiting men.

Oswald wore a faint smile that should have warned him, but Luc was unprepared for the two men who burst from behind
the trestle tables stacked to one side. Still, he turned on the balls of his feet, sword slashing out in a wicked arc that caught one of the men broadside and folded him over Luc’s blade. Sweeping the blade free, he swung again to catch the other man just below the shoulder. It happened swiftly, and was over.

Turning, Luc glanced at the dais, and halted. Jean-Paul held his sword in an almost negligent grip, the tip hard against Oswald’s throat. “Loose your weapon, Oswald,” he said softly, a faint smile curving his lips, “or you shall have two gaping mouths instead of one.”

“Curse you,” Oswald got out. “You are a traitor to your own kind!”

“Nay, Oswald. I am Saxon through and through, heedless of my father’s birth. But I am also smart enough to have learned who is the better man. And that man is not you, nor the other outlaw earls. It is William, and it is men like my brother, who are strong enough to hold these lands against the Danes and the Scots. You must call Malcolm to you for strength, and that is worse than the Normans. Now drop your sword, and you will live to face my brother’s justice.”

Still cursing, Oswald held his blade out to one side, his eyes glittering with hatred. His fingers clenched and unclenched around the bloodied hilt, and Luc started forward, observing the intention in Oswald’s eyes before Jean-Paul did.

Swinging hard, Oswald managed to catch Jean-Paul hard against the side, even as he dodged to elude the sword thrust at his throat. But he did not twist far enough, for Jean-Paul’s blade sliced through the side of his neck in a clean sweep that spouted blood. As Oswald collapsed, his knees striking hard against the stone floor, Jean-Paul turned in a curiously graceful step and slowly sagged to his knees, hands slipping down the blade of his sword heedless of the sharp edge. Already, his eyes were glazing when Luc reached him, catching him as he pitched forward and the gaping wound in his side gushed torrents of blood over both of them.

“Ah, God, Jean-Paul.…”

Grimacing, his brother looked up. His hand caught at Luc’s sleeve, gripping hard. “For … give me, Luc.…”

“Yea, Jean-Paul, you are forgiven all. But do not talk now. Save your strength until—”

“Nay.” The fist in his sleeve tightened. “It is … in vain. Do not think … I mind. I do … not.” He shuddered, and his lips formed faint words that Luc leaned close to hear. “Keep what … you have earned, brother.” He drew in a wet, rasping breath and his eyelids fluttered. “Your lady is … in … the vault. I tried … to help her.”

“She is safe, Jean-Paul. You have redeemed yourself most honorably. Now rest, brother, for you have earned it.”

A faint smile quivered on Jean-Paul’s lips, then his body contorted and he gave a gurgling sigh that was his last. Luc stared down at him, throat tight with emotion, and prayed that his brother would forgive him for his dark suspicions.

“My lord.”

Luc glanced up. Kerwin stood breathing hard, his eyes filled with sympathy but his manner urgent.

“Yes, Kerwin?”

“Remy has opened the gates. Our men are inside, and carrying the day. What should we do with the traitors?”

Luc glanced down at Jean-Paul’s lifeless body, and gently closed the sightlessly staring blue eyes with the edge of his palm. “Do not put them to the sword yet. There is always time for a man to offer penance. Those that swear fealty will be given another chance.”

He rose to his feet, and turned to the entrance. “Find the man with the key to the vault and send him to me.”