Fire Raven (16 page)

Almost twelve hours had passed since Morgan rode out with his men to subdue trouble in the village. Although Winnie didn’t seem concerned, Kat was worried. She sought the dusky horizon for any sign of Morgan or the wagon Lloyd Carey said the men had taken.

The rain increased as darkness fell, and soon Kat was forced to retreat indoors. There she paced another hour and perused the books in Morgan’s library during the brunt of the magnificent thunderstorm. Finally the storm faded over mist-topped Madoc’s Craig, though a steady drizzle persisted.

Was Wales always so dreary?
Kat wondered. She realized she hadn’t cared how many storms passed over them each day. Morgan had always been there to brighten her day, when the weather itself was beastly.

Kat went to the window in Morgan’s library for what seemed the hundredth time. She scanned the darkness again. This time she saw several lights break off in the direction of the village and head towards Falcon’s Lair. The rapid, bobbing up-and-down motion of the lights indicated they were torches carried upon horseback. With rising hope, Kat turned and hurried past the crackling hearth to find Winnie.

Even in Morgan’s absence, a fire was kept going in his favorite room, and the library was warm and inviting. She paused to run loving fingers over a dusty, leather-bound volume of
Richard II
propped on the last shelf, then shook herself free of fancies and left the distracting books behind.

She caught a glimpse of her own passing reflection in a pier glass in the hall. Her hair was neatly braided, tucked beneath a white lace shadow. The gown she wore was a crimson red velvet with metal thread leaf embroidery on the sleeves and hems. Its train swished across the floor behind Kat as she entered the hall and called for Winnie.

Winnie appeared carrying a taper holder and shielding the flickering flame with one hand. She noted Kat’s damp skirts and clucked. “Will you be tempting a fever, now?”

“I saw lights headed this way,” Kat said breathlessly. “Perhaps ’tis the men returning, at last.”

The news pleased Winnie. “I’ll rouse Ailis to set out a late repast. Like as not, all shall be invited to sup with the Master in this weather, as reward for a job well-done.” She added kindly, “Let me send Gwynneth to fetch a dry gown for you.”

Kat declined. “I fear his lordship has seen me in worse repair before. I’ll take no chances on missing him this time. I want to share the good news myself. Please, Winnie, will you ask Cook to offer a stout mead this evening? I trow, the men will be chilled to the bone.”

Winnie nodded and hurried off to the kitchens. The meager light left with her. Unlike the library, the great hall was cold and damp. The huge hearth was dark. Kat remained in virtual darkness until she fumbled her way to a table and found several tapers. She lit three candles. Taking a taper for herself, she turned to follow Winnie.

The shadow of a large figure, lurking before her, brought a quick cry to her lips. Then the wavering candlelight revealed a suit of armor for what it was.

Foolish chit
, Kat scolded herself, gathering up the folds of her gown with one hand in order to protect the hem.
’Tis just an old keep, and your fancies are getting the best of you
. She was too anxious to share news of her recovery with Morgan. The slightest thing rattled her nerves. She had started for the kitchen when Winnie reappeared, shrugging on her own cloak and hood and carrying a large satchel.

“Pray, you aren’t going out in this rain to meet the party of men?” Kat inquired with some confusion.

“Nay, dearie. I just spoke with Cook. There’s a girl giving birth out at the miller’s tonight. The wee one is turned the wrong way and, without my help, they both might die.” Winnie shook her head. “There’s no help for it now. I’ve got to go. I’ll trust you to let the Master know of my whereabouts when he arrives.”

“Of course I will. Do you need any help?”

Winnie shook her head. “I’ve all I need in my satchel here, including some good, stout rope, if I’ve a need to tie Molly down.” She didn’t appear to notice Kat’s shudder at the matter-of-fact comment. “I doubt I’ll be back before dawn. Can you oversee matters alone?”

Kat nodded. She was determined not to let Winnie down.

“Bless you,” Winnie said, with obvious relief. A moment later, the housekeeper was gone. Her exit admitted a brief sheet of rain with the opening and closing of the door.

Kat debated what she should do next. She decided she’d best check with Cook and see if Ailis needed any help serving a meal to so many hungry men. Before she left the hall, there came a muffled pounding at the door.

Assuming Winnie had forgotten something, Kat set down her candle and opened the door. She was brushed aside by a small troop of men clad in rain-soaked uniforms. Their dripping leader was a tall soldier with a square jaw and a scraggly brown beard. His glance dismissed the dimly-lit hall and found Kat instead. His eyes roamed her up and down. His gaze lingered on her breasts.

“Well, what’s this now?” He winked at Kat and said aside to his men, “I see Trelane’s got his pick of the ripe wenches hereabouts.”

Outraged by his crude manner, Kat raised her hand. She intended to slap the sneer right off the soldier’s leering face. Then she noted the merciless glint in his eye and reconsidered. Instinct warned her not to reveal her true identity to these men. Instead she curtsied meekly and let them assume what they would.

“Are you seeking shelter from the storm, good sirs?” she asked in what she prayed was a suitably servile tone.

“Nay. We seek a blind woman his lordship is inclined to shelter from Her Majesty’s justice,” their leader said. He didn’t seem to notice Kat’s eyes widen. He was staring instead at the impressive suits of armor lining the hall.

“God’s nightshirt,” he irreverently swore. “Came these from the Crusades?”

“I know not, sir,” Kat answered, dropping her gaze when he glanced her way again. She was the blind woman they sought. But why? She sensed she was in grave danger, though she dared not imagine why. When all the soldiers crowded in to examine the ancient armor, she seized her chance.

“I’ll summon milord,” she murmured with another curtsey. She realized they did not know Morgan was away. They made no move to pursue her. She retreated until she was safely hidden in the shadows of the great hall, then turned and fled toward the kitchens. She burst into Cook’s domain with a ready cry on her lips.

“Ailis! You must help me.”

The kitchens were empty and silent, save for the merry crackling of a fire in the great hearth. With mounting despair, Kat ventured into the kitchens and pantry, calling for Ailis or any of the other servants. Where had they all gone? She remembered Winnie mentioning the staff might attend evening vespers in the village. With a choked cry, Kat fled the kitchens in search of a better hiding place. She chose the servant’s passage. She doubted the men in the hall were patient sorts, and she suspected they would come looking for her soon.

She carefully navigated several sets of narrow, spiraling steps. It seemed they went on forever, clear to the upper reaches of the keep. Thankfully, the way was lit, sconces tracing the walls. There were any number of nooks and crannies where she might hide until Morgan or the others returned, but which was the best?

The taste of fear turned sour in Kat’s mouth long before the stairs ended. She discovered the door at the top was locked, mayhap bolted from the other side. Kat tugged on it a futile moment, then sank down on the steps, huddled in her voluminous gown.

Soon she heard curses and footsteps pacing below in the hall. She pressed a hand to her trembling lips to still any inadvertent outcry. She waited, rigid with terror, hoping the soldiers would eventually give up and go away. She wondered who they were and why they sought her out.

She recalled their uniforms were green and white, albeit the white was liberally stained with mud and ale — Tudor colors. Sweet Jesu! Did Elizabeth Tudor herself believe Kat was an enemy of the realm? Or did the queen already know Kat’s identity in truth and sent her men to mete out due justice?

Kat still did not know who she was. She realized that in her past she might have been a felon: anyone from a humble thief to a cunning murderess. Perhaps others knew her real identity. Mayhap they had come now to serve her with her sentence. If so, only one man might save her now.

Morgan!
she silently cried.
Help me!
Kat listened in vain for the sound of an approaching wagon. Instead there came the ominous, pounding echo of footsteps up the stone stairs. She shrank down as if to make herself invisible. A sensation of something wet against her skin made her shudder and glance up. She saw a chink in the stone above her.

Rain dripped down in a steady stream, soaking through her gown. In her present terror, Kat cared not, until she was reduced to violent shivers. When a soldier appeared at the base of the stairs, she glanced at her sodden crimson skirts and saw they had darkened to the color of blood.

M
ORGAN HEAVED THE WOODEN
bucket over the smoking rubble and doused the glowing sparks with a satisfying sizzle. He tossed down the bucket and turned to face the line of men, wiping his soot-streaked brow with the back of his hand.

“’Tis all we can do for now,” he announced, painfully aware of the young woman standing nearby, weeping. She owned the burned cottage. A stair-step of children clung to her skirts, the oldest not more than eight. Bile rose in Morgan’s throat as he surveyed the senseless wreckage.

Someone had torched Iona Sayer’s home after she and her family had retired for the night. The widow and her children barely escaped; all of their meager belongings were destroyed by the fire. Morgan was certain the malicious act was aimed as much at him as the Sayer family. When Iona’s husband had died last winter, Morgan deeded her the cottage and enough land to keep her self-sufficient so she might feed her brood.

Morgan’s simple act of mercy had not gone unnoticed; it had also been misconstrued. He approached the Widow Sayer now, unable to blame her when she averted her face.

“I promise I will do all I can to catch the villains who did this,” he said in a low voice. “I must ask you again: did you see or hear anything?”

Iona shook her head too quickly. Morgan couldn’t blame the woman for being frightened, but he was frustrated by the misplaced loyalty among these proud people.

“You and all your children would have perished, if not for Evan Howell,” Morgan said, gesturing at a youth who stood nearby, soot streaked upon his beardless face. Thirteen-year-old Evan had seen smoke rising from the Sayer cottage and rushed in to save the family, without a thought for his own life. Yet Evan, too, was mutinously silent about who had set the blaze.

Iona nodded and swallowed. “Thank ye for tryin’ to save me home, milord,” she whispered, risking a nervous glance at Morgan as she hugged the wailing baby to her breast. Just as quickly, she averted her gaze again.

“I’ll see another cottage is built for you,” Morgan promised the widow.

“Nay! I — I mean, thank ye kindly, milord. Oh, I’ve been thinkin’ of leavin’ anyway, to join me kin up in Cardigan.” Iona babbled the excuse as she scraped back strands of ash-stained hair from her face. She juggled the baby to her other arm. The babe let out a thin, hungry cry. Iona must have sensed Morgan’s rising frustration, for she wouldn’t meet his eye.

“As you wish,” Morgan said shortly. “I trust there is someone you can stay with until morn? It does not appear the rain has any intentions of stopping soon.”

Iona nodded. An older woman, who had been closely observing their exchange of words, moved forward. Her expression was belligerent.

“I be Iona’s cousin by marriage,” the woman stoutly declared. “Since Vaughn’s death, I been keepin’ an eye out for Iona an’ the wee ones. They’ll be stayin’ with me now.”

This one didn’t shrink from meeting Morgan’s gaze. He didn’t mistake the mixture of thinly veiled contempt and hatred. The emotions shone, dagger-fashion, in her eyes.

“Then I guess we can depart, men.” Morgan wearily addressed the handful who had accompanied him from Falcon’s Lair. “There’s not much else we can do here.”

When he turned and walked back to the wagon, Morgan heard several hisses aimed in his direction. It was no use singling out the culprits. Most of the villagers milled about in the rain and muck, gawking at the burned cottage and their overlord.

Morgan kept walking, rigid with anger. But he was too tired and dispirited to try and reason with these folk. The same men and women casting him dark looks now were the ones he anonymously sent food and clothing to during the hard winter months.

Morgan knew them for the proud, independent people they were; he wondered what they would do if they learned he had been their secret benefactor. He knew of none who had refused his aid. They most probably assumed it came from the nearby abbey. Why they would accept charity from the Church, and not him, was maddening indeed.

Iona Sayer was one of the few who directly experienced Morgan’s generosity. He saw what it had cost the widow and her family. He swore he would not waste his efforts again.