I CONTINUED walking out of the chapel woodenly. A numbness crept up from my toes to my knees. If I didn’t keep walking, the catatonia would possess my body again.
King John’s black aura had faded and intensified during that hateful interview. I wondered briefly if the Black One’s control over him could be broken.
King John’s parting words kept echoing through my mind. “You will not escape us again.”
Trouble, like death, would hover over my left shoulder as long as I dealt with King John.
Ahead of me, the blond man with the black aura lounged on Lady Sigrid’s bench at the high table. A satisfied smirk crossed his thin face.
Lady Sigrid touched my elbow almost as soon as I stepped through the curtain into the Hall.
“I heard,” she whispered as she clamped a firm hand on my upper arm. “I’ll set up a separate pallet near the fire for you. With that dog to guard you, you should sleep unmolested.” She glanced back at the chapel anxiously.
“If necessary, I’ll warm the king’s bed,” she continued. “God’s wounds, most of the ladies of the court expect to be called by him. I’ve heard Lady Neville actually offered His Highness two hundred chickens for the privilege of sleeping with her own husband!”
One of the reasons I had thought to run to Eustace de Vesci of Northumberland was that King John had called Lady de Vesci to his bed frequently. Lord Eustace had taken his wife back to the remote fastness of his northern lands and never forgiven his liege lord.
“I heard the same tale about Lady Neville, but presumed it to be merely rumor spread by those who dislike His Highness’ ways,” I replied, not daring to remove my gaze from the blond man.
I knew a compulsion to run to him and throw myself on my knees before him and beg him for protection. Almost as soon as I thought it, I realized the falseness of his illusion of sanctuary. I had to protect myself. No one, not even the king’s beloved half brother, could truly help me.
John had unknowingly given me two weapons. Knowledge that my mother had run to my father in Normandy. I had a place to run to if I could get to the continent. The king had also let me know that the location of the cache of family secrets was still secret, which insured that John would keep me alive until he had possession of those records. I had to make certain he never found the cache.
Newynog wandered away from me to sniff at the dogs by the fire. I called her to my heels with a hand signal. She came back in two long strides, ears and nose up. My hand found the long fur of her ruff almost by instinct. I tangled my fingers there as I had done during those long hours in the cellar beneath Mendip Mor. Instantly Newynog’s tail shot straight out behind her, fully fluffed. She moved her nose in small circles tasting the air for signs of danger.
In a manor this small most of the household bedded down on pallets in the Hall. Only the lord and lady had the privacy of a separate chamber. On the rare occasion important guests honored the manor, Lady Sigrid would expect to give over the bed and the privacy to her guests. Sir Hugh and I weren’t important enough for that privilege. King John was.
I settled into the cot Lady Sigrid prepared for me before the hearth in the bedchamber. I kept my chainse on rather than discarding it as was custom. One more layer of protection between me and the king, more symbolic than actual.
My mind spun with all the events of the past week. I needed quiet and prayer to sort them out, settle them into some kind of pattern I could deal with, one issue at a time. I craved sleep as much for the oblivion as the need to restore my mind and body. The more I tried to push away the turmoil, the faster it whirled. The muscles in my back and neck knotted.
Every creak and moan, rustle and clatter within the manor house made me jump or twitch. I listened more closely for the indications that King John retired for the evening. His retinue was much reduced by his haste and the impromptu nature of his visit. But dozens of servants and courtiers still dogged his every movement. His valet, Petit, would surely precede him into the chamber to place hot bricks in the bed for warmth and set out a washbasin, night lamp, and whatever else the king required as part of his nightly ritual.
The noise in the hall continued for hours. Drunken songs, shouting, and much male laughter.
I must have slept a little. When I awoke, I heard the snores of several men. A quick glance confirmed that the bed-curtains were closed around King John. Petit, the king’s valet, Blakely, and a few other highly placed courtiers stretched out on pallets scattered about the room.
The Black One did not behave as an ordinary man. I did not want to trust him with my welfare. I had trusted no one since that night nine years ago when King John’s men invaded Kirkenwood.
A man dressed in white with silver-blond hair... Blakely had led the invasion of Kirkenwood.
After several moments of watching me—and I knew he knew I watched him—he heaved himself over on his pallet, turning his back to me. I knew he did not sleep. He waited. For what?
Silently I gathered my clothing and slipped out into the Hall. No one followed me. I crept toward the kitchen, hoping to make a bed in the pantry. Did I dare steal a horse and ride posthaste to join Bishop Walter’s household in exile?
A hard, callused hand pressed against my mouth. My heart stuttered and raced. I heard it pounding in my ears.
But Newynog didn’t growl.
“What are you doing out here, milady?” Sir Hugh whispered into my ear from behind.
“Running away again, as I have spent my life running. I am so tired of this running, Hugh. But I do not know how I can stay here and be safe.” I sighed heavily, leaning into his warmth and strength. Part of me wanted to cry, to trust him as I dared trust no one.
“Come with me,” Sir Hugh said. His mouth lay next to my ear. With each quiet word his breath tickled my nape. Delicious shivers raced down my spine, replacing my fears.
Sir Hugh clasped my hand and tugged me toward the back doorway, the one that led to the kitchen building. Newynog followed without protest. So did I.
We circuited the many outbuildings that had become attached to the Hall. A chill, covered passageway led to the armory. Sir Hugh pushed the heavy wooden door open. It creaked on worn leather hinges. Inside the large room—almost as large as the Hall and bedchamber combined—a dozen men and women stretched out on pallets snoring. Lady Sigrid must have sent the overflow of retainers here. A small oil lamp gave off a soft glow from a niche near the door. Pikes, lances, axes, swords, and suits of mail hung from pegs set into the stone walls. No plaster, tile or wainscoting blocked the chill.
I shivered in the sudden draft.
“Don’t be afraid. You’re safe here,” Sir Hugh whispered in my ear. His breath stirred the fine hair of my face, renewing the tremors snaking through my body.
“So, you finally recognize John’s threat,” I replied.
“Not John. It’s Radburn Blakely I don’t trust. He’s been known to put a knife in a man’s back with less provocation than you gave our king tonight. He claims he does it to protect John, but I’ve seen how he enjoys taking a life, almost seems to renew his strength from death and pain.” His face took on a wooden look that I knew meant he hid painful memories.
“Tell me about him.”
“Not now. We both need sleep. I’ve put a pallet against the inside wall for myself. You may sleep there, I’ll prop up a wall beside you. Then tomorrow we must talk. You must tell me everything if I am to protect you.”
“We’ll share the pallet, Hugh. As we have shared rooms and pallets these past three nights. You need your sleep.”
He grunted his assent and led me to the right a few paces. Shuttered windows lined the room except on one short wall near the passageway. A little warmth penetrated that wall from the adjacent kitchen.
Sir William’s home was only a grange, barely fortified, but he kept knights and trained them in defense of his home as part of the service he owed his liege lord.
But how did we defend ourselves from treachery within?
With knowledge, Uncle Henry had said. Knowledge is the strongest weapon of all.
Some of the knowledge I needed was secreted at Kirkenwood. Even if I could get home, King John, through Radburn Blakely, would watch my every move. I dared not access the cache lest I be observed and the secrets hidden there fall into the wrong hands.
I had another course of action if only I would use it. My enemies had already found me.
God forgive me, I do this for the safety of many—not to blaspheme You!
o0o
I waited. Gradually the restless shifting, snoring and small sounds of a dozen people sleeping settled into the deep rhythm normal for the hours between Matins and Lauds.
Sir Hugh was one of the last to drift off. I’d slept in the same room with him three times, yet never had I had the courage to watch him as the masks and armor of daily living fell away. He looked younger as he slept, more vulnerable, and decidedly handsome.
I squelched that thought. When I finished what I had to do, I would have no right to expect anything from him but contempt—and maybe fear.
After a brief period of light sleep, his eyelids fluttered as he viewed his dreams with closed eyes. He heaved himself over on his back with a heavy sigh, flinging his arms outward. His left fist nearly connected with my jaw.
Then he dropped deeper, beyond the realm of dreams into true sleep.
I touched Newynog with a gentle hand. She awoke instantly, alert and ready to leap to my command. I needed nothing more from her than watchfulness. She dropped her head back onto her forepaws, eyes open, ears half-cocked.
We have not done this for many months, friend. Help us remember how to do it quickly. Guide us directly to the place in his mind where he hides the memory of Radburn Blakely.
With my right hand on Newynog’s head, I lifted my left hand over Sir Hugh’s face. I swallowed deeply as I gathered my courage. As Uncle Henry had taught me, I placed my forefinger in the center of Hugh’s forehead, thumb on one temple, little finger on the other temple.
He stirred slightly under my gentle touch but did not awaken.
In full contact with my victim and my familiar, I took three deep breaths to steady and prepare myself. With the third breath I felt myself rising above my body. The shadowed room jumped into sharp focus. Impossibly bright colors haloed sleeping heads. I watched a moment as the auras fluctuated with dreams, sometimes flaring upward with emotion or darkening with fear.
Then, before my courage failed, I sent my astral self plunging into Hugh’s mind.
A wall of memories struck me an almost physical blow. Always before I had retreated rather than violate a person’s privacy. Uncle Henry, a willing partner in the exercise, was the only person I had been able to penetrate deeper than the surface.
I concentrated on sorting through the jumble of thoughts about Hugh’s most recent experiences. I lived with him again the conversation with King John, the feel of my body in his arms as he carried me to the chapel, his distrust of Radburn Blakely’s too pretty smile, his fierce sense of protectiveness and possessiveness toward me.
In his mind I saw myself as a beautiful and fragile woman who puzzled, intrigued, and attracted him more than even his late wife and her riches.
The knowledge that her wealth had been his motivation for marrying her and not love gave me a sense of satisfaction.
His overwhelming love for his wife’s sickly son surprised me. Oh, to know that depth of love for anyone! From anyone. My own loneliness brought tears to my eyes.
That sense of caring deep within him almost sent me back into my own body and mind. How could I violate the trust of this honest, incredibly loyal man?
But Radburn Blakely haunted us both.
I plunged deeper, past memories of Hugh’s wife, a cold and unemotional woman who had borne her first husband a single child after many years of marriage. Hugh had liked her intelligence and determination, but had never loved her. Guilt and inadequacy clouded most of his memories of her. We relived her belittling arguments against him time and time again. Then we plunged deeper to the night she had died bearing Hugh the son he craved. The child had outlived his mother by a few hours only.
Regret and bitterness flowed past me. I couldn’t let it touch me. If I melted into empathy with him, I’d never ferret out the memory I sought.
Radburn Blakely, I whispered into his mind.
Images of the fair-haired man fractured and Hugh dragged up instead the memory of the day King Richard had knighted him for valor on the battlefield. Pride, joy, and validation filled him. He’d proved to one and all that he was worthy of the sword he carried, the only possession he truly owned.
I lived with him again the day he’d won the sword in a tournament from his half brother, their father’s legitimate heir. His excitement, the smell of sweat and fear and dust rose up around us. Horses stamped and snorted. The crowd roared.
Hugh fought long and hard against Alain. Both gave and received many painful blows. Cursing and spitting blood and a tooth, the heir faltered. Six more blows and Hugh disarmed his opponent. Two more thrusts against a battered shield and he held his brother’s life in his hands.
All he wanted was his father’s sword.
Everything else Hugh now held in his possession belonged to his seven-year-old stepson John de Bellecôte.
Blakely, I pushed him to remember.
The king’s pet assassin, Sir Hugh replied almost as if we carried on a conversation.
“Shall I kill young John for you?” I heard Radburn Blakely ask Hugh as he knelt in prayer for his newly dead wife. “With the boy dead, John will give you the title. For a consideration, of course. My brother is always short of cash....” Blakely licked his lips almost in sexual excitement.
Sir Hugh and I shuddered away from that memory.
I gulped and pressed deeper. Certainly the offer of murdering an innocent child was reason enough to fear Blakely. But Sir Hugh’s memories were darker, more primeval. I had to push deeper to find them, know precisely who and what I must face.
You saw him murder someone in cold blood. Who? John de Bellecôte still lives.
Immediately his mind shifted to another scene. A memory he had buried deeply. I felt as if we smothered in uncarded wool as we reviewed snatches of conversations, hints, and suggestions.
I knew the sensation of tiptoeing down a long tunnel beneath a castle. Water seeped through cracks in moldy mortar, but I could not touch my element through Hugh’s dream. We must be deep underground. Rushlight flickered ahead and behind. We stepped slowly around puddles and broken paving stones, careful to remain quiet and shrouded by shadows between the torches. The corridor curved left and sloped down. We lost the hint of light behind us. We hurried a few steps to keep our quarry within view.
After a long and twisting trek beneath a... a foreign city... the tunnel opened. We felt the passage of cold fresh air. A natural cave spread before us.
France, his memory told me.
Paris? I asked.
He did not reply, but I felt his affirmation.
The tunnel had been improved by Romans, but the cave was much older. Old cold, fear, and awe penetrated us both when we touched the stones of the wall.
The little rushlight dissipated to nothing in the vastness of the chamber we entered. We heard more water, rushing rather than dripping. A stream. A free-flowing river, primal, elemental. I longed to renew myself and my powers in it.
Ahead of us, Radburn snapped his fingers and more light flooded the cave. We shivered as we realized he held a ball of cold flame in the palm of his hand.
Like the caves beneath Kirkenwood, long white stalactites hung from the ceiling. Water dripped from their ends. Columns rose from the floor to meet some of the limestone growths. Blakely’s light reflected off the white stone, augmenting itself a hundred times.
With the added illumination, Blakely picked his way across a natural bridge arching across the underground stream. His steps took him up a series of steps, perhaps carved by men’s hands long ago, perhaps eroded by the gradual change in water level.
On the thirteenth level above the stream lay a large slab of black stone—an alien altar in this white cave.
Atop the stone lay the inert form of a naked woman, arms and legs stretched outward and held in place by heavy shackles.
From our hiding place by the tunnel entrance we watched the woman’s eyes flutter open. We smelled her fear. I clung to Hugh’s memory lest I invade this image and share the woman’s aching cold and terror.
Blakely ignored her. He reached behind the altar and retrieved a copper vessel. First he poured a thin stream of water along the woman from forehead to toe as he chanted strange words. I think the cadence fell into the pattern of a language from the Far East, but Hugh’s memory didn’t retain enough of the individual syllables to know for sure.
The woman gasped at the touch of the cold liquid. Goose bumps rose on her flesh.
Blakely repeated the dousing of the woman with wine and oil, all the while chanting strange words and moving his hands in arcane gestures. The blue/blackness I had seen hovering around his head and shoulders intensified. Sparks of red crackled within the dark aura.
The woman moaned and shook her head repeatedly, murmuring one word over and over. “No, no, no, no!”
The chill in me grew.
As the chant drew to a climax, Blakely stretched both hands flat above the woman’s shaking body.
She screamed. The sound echoed and amplified, bouncing off the walls, spreading and engulfing.
Hugh in his memory covered his ears and closed his eyes to blank out the hideous scene. But he had to see, had to know who and what he dealt with. He opened his eyes and bit his tongue on an exclamation.
Flame shot from Blakely’s fingertips. Fire, his element. Tamed Fire, a cleansing element like water. Wild Fire, an agent of chaos. Ten lines of fire found fuel in the wine and oil on the woman’s body. The flames invaded her vagina and she arched and writhed, desperately trying to escape the pain. She screamed again and again, her cries echoing around the chamber.
Hugh and I cringed, afraid to rush out to help the woman. Deep-seated self-doubt kept us frozen in place. We beat at our temples, trying desperately to rush out, sword drawn, and murder the sorcerer.
We were too late. Killing Blakely would not save the woman. We had failed again to live up to our expectations of ourself.
Blakely smiled. The black aura grew. The red sparks lengthened into lightning bolts.
“Thank you, mistress whore. You have given me much power tonight,” Blakely announced. Then he plunged a long vorpal-bladed athame—his ritual knife—into her heart, silencing her screams forever.