Mary Reed McCall (25 page)

And toward the one man who might prove to be Mistress Catherine’s chance of survival.

Gray was at work in his solar planning out his strategy of attack on Eduard when he heard the shouts. It sent a tingle of warning up his back, like the feeling he got in the dead, eerie silence right before a thunderstorm unleashed its fury from the heavens.

Something was wrong.

Grasping the silken bag from under the table’s edge, he pulled out his key and jammed it into the lock in the wall, pushing the hidden door open and lurching into the tilt yard. Though it was night, nearly a score of men filled the area, their torches providing flickering illumination.

“My lord! Sweet Jesu, Lord Camville, ’tis awful!” Gray’s steward, Briggs, came rushing up to him, his hands smeared in blood, his face pale in the unnatural light. “The old hunchback from the stables has
been attacked, my lord. One of the watchmen found him. Knifed, he was,” the steward cried, even as he led Gray past the open stable doors.

A trail of blood soaked into the wood chips along the edge of the lists; Heldred had obviously been trying to cross the yard to get to the castle. Several of Gray’s knights knelt next to the old man’s prostrate form another ten paces away, trying to staunch the red flow that continued to seep onto the now slick grass near him.

“Is he alive?” Gray asked harshly, stalking the last few feet to Catherine’s old friend. Concern gripped him so that he didn’t know if he could speak at all.

“Aye, my lord,” Briggs answered. “At least, he was so when I left him a moment ago.”

Heldred’s eyes fluttered open when Gray dropped to his knees beside him. Even through the pain Gray saw reflected in the old man’s gaze, worry and intensity shone brighter.

“Easy, now. I’m here. Talk to me if you can. Tell me how this happened,” Gray said gently, anger at what Heldred must be suffering churning in him as he supported the old man’s head on his arm. “I vow to bring those responsible to justice for it.”

Coughing, Heldred tried to sit up more. The movement made him blanch anew, while the horrible bubbling sound that wheezed from him increased. He grasped Gray’s tunic in his bloody grip, pulling him closer. “Breached, my lord!” he whispered. “The security of the castle is breached. Rupert—” He gasped for breath again, blood show
ing on his lips. “He is a spy. You must go after my lady Catherine…” He coughed, a harsh rattling sound that mixed now with a gurgle. “She is in grave danger. You must go to her—!” he choked, before falling back into Gray’s arms. He took one, last, tortured breath before his chest stilled and his eyes fixed upon nothing.

Gray felt the world spinning around him as he stared at Heldred’s now lifeless body. Gently, he laid him back onto the grass and pushed himself to his feet. Somehow, he managed to give a mumbled order that the remains be looked after and prepared for a noble burial. Then, half-stumbling, he crossed the yard, the loyal old man’s dying words ringing their deadly message through his brain and soul.

Breached. The security was breached
.

Catherine was in danger, and she had no way of knowing it. She would reach Faegerliegh Keep before dawn with only three men to help her—only three men to keep her from the harm of a madman and his entire army.

Christ, Eduard was going to get her
.

A roar exploded from Gray’s chest, and he burst into a run, bellowing for his master at arms to assemble all of his forces to leave for Faegerliegh Keep. There wasn’t a moment to spare.

Everyone burst into a flurry of activity, shouts going up and people rushing back and forth as they scrambled to obey their lord. Gray threw himself into his armor chamber, yanking his sword and mace from the wall, as his squire dashed to gather his chain mail, chausses, surcoat and hauberk.

Gray dragged the mail shirt over his head, his thoughts racing. He had to get to her. He had to. Because for the first time in seventeen years he faced a battle that might spell death for someone other than himself, for someone he loved more than his own life.

And so for the first time in seventeen years, Gray prayed.

He asked God for the aid that had been forsaken him on the day Gillian died. He prayed and pleaded with all that he had, with all that he was, that he would reach Catherine in time…

Because the alternative would be a hell he couldn’t even begin to contemplate.

The little whore. Did she think she could outsmart him? Did she really think he would allow it?

Eduard stalked away from his tent, tightening his sword belt as he went. He relished the feel of the sheathed blade slapping heavy against his thigh as he cut through the cool morning haze. Ribbons of mist floated over the encampment, obscuring his sight and adding to his rage as he searched the piles of sleeping men for his captain at arms.

The bastard was nowhere to be found. With a fierce kick, Eduard roused one of his knights from a drunken slumber. The man sputtered and coughed as he sprang to his feet, ready to attack his assailant until he realized his master’s identity and saw the fury in Eduard’s gaze.

“Mi—milord Montford,” he stammered, dragging his arm across his mouth with a grimace. “How—how may I serve you this morn?”

“Find Robileau. Tell him to report to my tent immediately. As for the rest of the men, have everyone pack without delay. We leave for Faegerliegh Keep within the hour.”

“
Faegerliegh
, milord?” The knight’s brows knitted together in consternation. “Pardon, milord, but I thought we’d already traveled past Faegerliegh on our way to Ravenslock Castle.”

“Imbecile,” Eduard growled, his temper bubbling up again; he yanked the man by the back of his tunic and tossed him forward to sprawl in the dirt. “Never question my orders. I said Faegerliegh Keep, and ’tis what I meant. Now go!”

Without another word the knight scrambled to obey, hazarding a glance over his shoulder as he disappeared into the maze of tents. With another growl, Eduard spun on his heel and stalked back to his shelter, ignoring the dark, angry gazes of the men waking up around him as he went. Curse them all. Curse every one of them, along with their slothful captain.

And curse that bitch Catherine for attempting, for even one moment, to thwart him.

Yanking aside the silken flap to his tent, Eduard ducked in, sparing hardly a glance at Rupert, who sat, bloodied and exhausted, on the floor, still clutching his pouch of reward gold. Eduard focused instead on Juliette, crouching in the corner of the tent where he’d left her. She stared at him, eyes wide in her bruised face, wordlessly shaking her head as he stalked nearer.

“Nay!” She shrieked hoarsely, when he grasped
her arm and hauled her to her feet. Pulling back his arm he struck her twice, hard, before allowing her to fall to the bed with a cry as she buried her face in her hands.

“Get out,” he snarled, not trusting himself to keep from killing her if he began to beat her in earnest as he longed to do. She meant nothing to him. Was worth nothing. But a dead woman would slow him down, or else make him a target for someone who might report of it back to the king.

Balling up her clothes, he reached down and grasped her arm again, dragging her from the bed and across the tent. Then, tossing her garments out in front of her, he shoved her through the flap and into the camp, not caring that she was wrapped only in the coverlet, or that the men’s hungry gazes would be sure to find her, even in the mist-laden air.

Rupert stirred to the sounds of her sobbing outside, and with a shouted command, Eduard ejected him from the tent as well. Let the bloody wretch join the men if he wanted the comforts of food and drink. Rupert had served his purpose and was of no more use to him. Right now he needed to be alone to think. And plan.

Pacing back to his bed, Eduard wrinkled his nose and kicked the piles of fur and cushions until they lay in a tangled mound at the edge of the tent. They’d need to be burned, reeking as they did of woman; ’twas a scent he couldn’t abide after his lust was sated.

Scowling again, he stalked to the magnificent, carved chair that he carried with him wherever he
went and threw himself into it. Then, leaning back, he rubbed his finger across his lip, attempting to calm the fury that still boiled, it seemed, beneath the very surface of his skin.

Damn it, but he needed to concentrate. Needed to plot the day’s events anew and revise his ruined plans. Closing his eyes, he breathed in, trying to focus, trying to bring back the icy calm he needed to accomplish his mission. He envisioned his army turning back to Somerset, saw in his mind’s eye as they descended on Faegerliegh, saw himself crashing through the doors of the Keep and hunting down Catherine, with her two weak-minded whelps. And then…

Eduard’s eyes snapped open as he sat up, a smile edging at his lips. A rush of cold, hard purpose slammed through his gut, bringing back with it calm and focus.

’Twas perfect
.

He’d reach Faegerliegh within a few hours—long before Camville could ever hope to get there, even if he’d left immediately after Rupert’s escape, which was unlikely, based upon the lad’s report that the only man who’d seen him was dead and unable to sound the alarm. Aye, he would have ample time to take his anger out on Catherine, even kill her if he wished, before Camville arrived. And then he could trap and kill him, too.

When the king demanded explanation for the debacle, Eduard could simply explain that his beloved sister had sought refuge at Faegerliegh after fleeing Ravenslock and her husband’s brutal rages—the
same rages that had caused the man to beat his own twin sister to death years before.

But, Eduard could explain regretfully, Camville had followed Elise to Faegerliegh and killed her for her disobedience, an act that, once Eduard learned of it, required vengeance, resulting in his rival’s destruction as well.

Eduard broke into a full grin. ’Twas perfect. He’d have Catherine
and
Camville dead, and rather than gaining the simple third of Gray’s lands he stood to inherit otherwise, no doubt the king would grant him the bastard’s complete estates and titles for the losses he’d suffered.

He almost laughed with the perfection of it all.

Pushing himself from his chair, he walked over to his armor, hefting his shield and stroking his finger over his thickly painted device, a Rampant Lion crushing a writhing serpent under its paw. Aye. He knew what needed to be done now. He knew well.

By God, it was his destiny.

Catherine ducked into the darkened chamber, motioning for Alban to follow behind her. He slunk in, as quiet as she, unencumbered by his usual armor; he and the other men had decided to forsake it on this secret mission, wearing only their hauberks for the sake of silence and speed. Sir Newell and Sir Payton stayed behind in the corridor, keeping watch to alert them of the approach of any Faegerliegh guards.

Everything was proceeding as planned.

’Twas no longer dark outside; dawn had threaded
pink and golden fingers over the land a little more than an hour ago, just as Catherine and the men had reached her old home. They’d tethered their horses in the wood beyond the keep and crept the rest of way into the estate on foot, sneaking through the gate while the watchman’s back was turned to relieve himself against the wall.

They’d had to wait for a long time for that chance, but they’d been ready when it came. Now the waiting was over. In a few moments she’d see her children again. She took a deep breath where she stood in the doorway of their room and then stepped forward.

Her entire body thrummed with excitement, her eyes straining as she moved closer to their bed. Other than the low glow of last night’s coals in the grate, the room was black as pitch. The shutters had ever been thick here; for all the light outside, the room seemed shrouded in darkness. She reached out her hand, unable to see well in front of her but expecting to touch the wooden posts of the bed frame at any moment.

“Do you see them yet, my lady?” Alban called softly through the gloom. She felt his presence close at her back, and she breathed another silent prayer of thanks to Gray for sending his friend along with her. ’Twas almost as if Gray himself stood by her side, stable and comforting.

“Nothing yet,” she whispered. Her toe suddenly rapped into something hard, and she stifled a gasp. The bed. Her hands trembled as she reached out to feel the warm, solid little shapes that should be nes
tled under the coverlet. She groped and leaned over further, propping her knee onto the mattress. But she found nothing. The bed was empty.

“They’re not here.” She twisted to face Alban in the dark, her voice still quiet but edged now with panic. “The coverlets are rumpled, but they’re gone!”

Alban stepped away, checking the rest of the chamber before returning to her side. “The room is empty, my lady. Are you sure this is their chamber? Might you have taken a wrong turn in the dark?”

“Nay. ’Tis the twins’ room. This is their bed,” she said, touching the thickly carved vines and leaves that covered the wooden posts. “Geoffrey received this bed from Eduard, as a gift at their birth. ’Twas one of the few luxuries he allowed us to keep.” She felt her throat closing as she considered other, less pleasant places that Ian and Isabel might be.

Or what Eduard might have done to them if he’d learned what she was up to.

Pushing that horrid thought from her mind, she paced back to the door. An idea bloomed suddenly, filling her with renewed hope. “Come! There is one other place to check,” she whispered, crossing again to the opposite side of the bedchamber. She pushed aside a thick woolen tapestry on the wall, revealing a narrow door with a little latch set into the wood. “It connects to my old room,” she whispered, pulling the latch and allowing the door to swing into the adjacent chamber.

Here the light shone a little brighter through the
crevices in the shutters, though no fire warmed the grate. ’Twas deathly cold. In the gloom, Catherine made out the contours of her much simpler bed—almost a pallet, really. Geoffrey had made her retire to it most nights, as a punishment for having displeased him in some way.