Chapter 18 #2
Emma’s heart broke. “Yes.” On shaky legs she stood. “I must leave, but know that I will miss you terribly. And, after you give Sir Patrik the writ, tell . . .” She fought for control. “Te-Tell him that I love him.”
Somber, Joneta nodded.
Before she broke down, Emma went to where a line of clothes dried, removed an old cape, donned the garb.
With the unhurried steps of one who worked within the castle, she walked to the bailey.
It was crowded with people, some loading supplies for the rebels camped outside while others secured ropes over loads already piled.
Near the gatehouse, men and women were walking alongside wagons topped with bags of food.
Keeping her head bowed, Emma fell in amongst the group.
As they moved past the drawbridge, plumes of dust spewed from the wheels, shrouding her and the others in a haze. Emma wiped her eyes, thankful for the concealing haze. Each step was laden with fear, each step one closer to escape.
Once the party reached the shore, amidst the roll of wagons, snorts of horses and the wave of knights continuing to arrive, Emma quickly slipped away. At the edge of the forest, within a dense copse of trees, she came upon a squire tying a mare to the bough of a small tree.
With practiced ease, she knocked out the squire, hid his body within a dense thicket and covered him with the stolen cape. With the number of knights nearby, the squire would be safe until he came to.
With quiet, hurried steps, she led the horse farther into the dense tangle.
At the top of the steep slope, through the swath of fir trees, she took in Lochshire Castle, where Patrik still slept, where but a short while before they had made love, and where, if only for a little while, she had found love.
The horse shifted, and she released the bough. Thick needles of pine swung back and severed her view. A fitting reminder that her time here was past.
Now, to reach a port.
With ease she swung up on the mare. The fragrant bed of needles and earth absorbed the clomp of hooves as she wove through the forest. When she reached a clearing, she urged her mount into a canter without looking back.
“Patrik.”
At Seathan’s gruff voice, Patrik forced his lids open. Orange-red rays of the fading sunset tumbled into his chamber, the scent of the summer evening and roasting venison a wonderful mix. A memory gnawed at his mind, something important he must remember. He searched, but it fell away.
“Patrik,” Seathan repeated.
“I am awake,” Patrik grumbled as he waded through his mind’s haze, clawing for the thought. He glanced over at the table, froze.
The writ was gone.
Memories poured through him of trying to go after Cristina, then blackness. He’d passed out. Patrik glanced over, found his brothers and Griffin in ominous silence at his side. No words were necessary; the upset on the men’s faces matched his own.
“She took it,” Patrik whispered.
Seathan nodded. “Aye.”
An ache built inside, stripped any warmth within until Patrik was left empty. Cold. “Where is she?”
Anger flashed in Alexander’s eyes. “We are not sure.”
“What?” Patrik sat up. Dizziness assailed him. He ignored the aches that came with healing, and focused on his outrage.
“Sir David de Moravia arrived with a large contingent shortly after we left you this morn.” Seathan cast a glance at Griffin, frowned. “During the commotion, she disappeared.”
“Do you think she has left?” Patrik asked.
“I have guards scouring the entire castle,” Seathan replied, “but with each entry well guarded, I believe she is still within.”
Patrik glanced at the empty table. However much he wanted to agree, a part of him sensed otherwise.
“Aye, we will find her,” Patrik agreed, with more confidence than he felt. Saint’s breath, the English could not learn of their informant!
He hadn’t wanted to believe Cristina would take the writ, hadn’t wanted to believe his brothers’ doubts. Bedamned, they’d made love, she’d given herself to him in the most intimate of ways. Yet, ’twould seem with the first opportunity, as Alexander had suspected, she’d taken the writ.
Who was this woman he loved?
She’d whispered that she loved him. Was that a lie as well?
Furious, Patrik sat, swung his feet on the floor and stood. Another wave of dizziness assailed him, threatened to take him under. He focused on his anger, determined to find her, to learn the truth.
“Christ’s blade,” Seathan said. “What do you think you are doing?”
“Looking for her.”
“Like bloody hell,” Alexander spat. “Do nae worry, we will catch the lass. On that I swear my life.”
Griffin crossed his arms over his chest. “With darkness coming and the drawbridge up, she is locked within.”
“Besides,” Seathan said, “Sir David has asked to meet with you.”
Patrik met his eldest brother’s gaze.
“As I, Sir David was shocked to learn Dubh Duer is my brother.” Seathan grimaced. “Since you find it necessary to move, come down once you are dressed.”
His mind a haze, Patrik nodded.
“I will stay and help you,” Duncan said.
Patrik shook his head. “Nae.”
Duncan hesitated. With a frown, he followed his brothers out.
Alone and on unsteady legs, Patrik walked to the window. Clouds skimmed the sky in delicate wisps. The sun, an angry blaze of orange, lowered upon the horizon. What else had Cristina lied about?
The bells of Vespers echoed.
Against the darkening skies, fires upon the shore sprouted.
“Blast it, where are you?”
A soft knock sounded upon his door.
“Enter,” he called, supposing a servant brought fresh water or food.
The door inched open and wide green eyes peered inside.
Surprised to see the wee lass, Patrik stepped forward. “Joneta?”
“Can you come here, Sir Patrik?”
Confused, he walked to the door, opened it wide. “Methinks it is late for you to be about.” He peered down the corridor, surprised to find it empty. “Where is your mother, lass?”
The child shifted before him. “She thinks I am abed.”
“As you should be. The hour grows late.”
“But I promised,” she rushed out.
Coldness sifted through him. “What did you promise, lass?”
Small hands lifted her blanketed doll. Joneta unwrapped the woven fabric, exposing the leather-bound writ.
Cristina had taken, then returned, the writ. What did that mean? A better question: Why had she wanted it at all? “Where did you get that?” He kept his voice light, free of anger.
“Mistress Cristina.” With a tug, the child pulled the rolled leather, held it out to him. “She said to give it to you after the bells of Vespers.”
He took the bound leather, checked. The seal upon the writ remained unbroken. Relief swept him. At least their informant within King Edward’s castle was safe, as was the news he passed. His brothers and Griffin would be relieved.
“And a fine task you have done,” Patrik said.
The girl fidgeted. “There is more.”
“More?” Hope ignited. Did Cristina await him below?
“Aye. She said to tell you that she loved you.” She leaned toward him conspiratorially. “’Tis silly as you already knew such.”
He swallowed hard. “Where is she?”
Sadness tugged the corners of her mouth. “She left.”
“The keep?”
Joneta shook her head. “Nae. This morn I watched her don a cape and go through the gatehouse with the men and women who walked alongside the wagons filled with supplies.”
“My thanks.”
The girl turned to leave. Hesitated. “Sir Patrik?”
“Aye, lass?”
“Mistress Cristina said she did not think she was coming back.”
Unable to speak, he nodded.
After a curtsy, Joneta hurried down the hall.
Heart breaking, Patrik closed the door. He dragged on his garb, ignoring the aches, the pain of moving his sore limbs. Aye, he would meet with Sir David de Moravia and give Seathan the writ, but he would not tell his brother she’d left the castle. After, he would leave to find Cristina—alone.
However much he wanted his brothers’ aid, the burden of finding her, and gaining answers concerning her interest in the writ, lay upon him.
The slap threw Emma back. The knights holding her arms prevented her from slamming to the floor. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth as she pushed past the pain.
“Sir Patrik Cleary and I were caught in an English raid.” She shook her head to clear her mind, exhaustion skewing her thoughts.
That same exhaustion had caused her to miss the English knights hidden within the brush.
They’d easily captured her and hauled her before Sir Hugh de Cressingham.
“Sir Patrik was killed.” A lie, but she hoped to be long gone before the treasurer of the English administration in Scotland discovered the truth.
Face red, Sir Cressingham shoved himself up from his oversized gilded seat and waddled toward where the guards held her tight. Lids puffed, jowls drawn down by fat, he halted a pace away. “Where is the writ?”
“I found none.”
“You lie,” Sir Cressingham boomed.
Through the roar of pain she shook her head. “’Tis the truth. I swear it.”
Malice flared within his puffy eyes. “Emma Astyn, you are acclaimed as one of England’s top mercenaries, a woman who has never failed in a mission, a woman I paid a king’s ransom to befriend Dubh Duer.
Now, after a setup to meet with Sir Patrik Cleary that left four of my knights dead, you dare tell me you have failed? ” His hand shot out.
Pain exploded in her skull.
“Where is he!”
“De-Dead,” she replied, sinking into the welcome blackness. Cold water splashed her face. She gasped, fought the flood of pain.
Sir Cressingham hauled her to him. “You will find no reprieve.”
A commotion outside had her turning. Vision blurring, she fought to focus.
Chubby hands shoved Emma toward the guards.
A knight shoved open the door. “Sir Cressingham, we have caught Dubh Duer.”
No! She’d left him asleep in Lochshire Castle. Horror flooded her as they hauled Patrik inside, his body slumped against the guards who carried him, his face a mass of purple where their fists had pummeled his flesh.
“Patrik!” She’d not meant to talk, to expose that she cared.
Sir Cressingham’s eyes narrowed on her. “He seems not dead to me. What other lies have you told me?”
“Cristina, wh-what is going on?” Patrik rasped.
“It seems,” Sir Cressingham said, “Emma has played us both.”
Patrik frowned. “Emma?”
Sir Cressingham grunted. “For a man known for his wit, ’twould seem you are a fool.”
Confusion marred Patrik’s face, his eyes a haze of pain.
“Emma, dear,” Sir Cressingham drawled, “tell him.”
The words curdled in her throat. Please, let Patrik not learn the truth this way.
Silence.
“Then allow me to introduce you,” Sir Cressingham said, venom dripping from his every word. “Meet Emma Astyn—”
Patrik’s face paled. “A woman acclaimed as one of England’s top mercenaries.”