Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Fergus dreamed.

He was chilled to his very marrow, curled up in his cloak as Yves took the watch, but he dreamed of Jerusalem. He recalled the heat of the sun, the dust, the flies, the smell of good horses, and manure. In his mind's eye, he strolled into the stables of the Templars.

He found Bartholomew arguing with a young boy in the stall of Gaston's destrier. He had seen the young boy in the stables before and knew him to be a Saracen as well as a friend of Bartholomew's.

Fergus eavesdropped, for they were unaware of his presence. To his surprise, the young boy was in fact a girl, and one determined to leave Jerusalem.

Leila.

Fergus awakened suddenly with a strong sense of doom. His thoughts were so filled with his memories of the Templar stables that he was surprised to find himself in the forest in the snow. He could not smell straw or hear the horses, the swish of their tails and the sound of their hooves on the stone floor. He rolled over immediately and saw that Leila slept, wrapped tightly in her cloak. Why had she been so determined to leave? He was glad to see that she was safe this night, for that had been his first concern after the dream. His fellows were asleep, the horses dozing where they were tethered. The sky was pale, but the sun had not risen as yet. The forest was quiet, save for the call of birds.

Why had he dreamed of Jerusalem?

Or had he dreamed of Bartholomew?

A man newly knighted, with a strong moral code. A man they were to meet at the next new moon, in twelve days' time.

A man who must be in peril, or soon to be so, just as Leila had been.

They had ridden far to the north of Haynesdale to evade Royce's men and had intended to ride farther to ensure they were not detected. But Fergus' dream was a warning.

They would ride back to Haynesdale this very day and hope that they arrived in time.

Or that his dream was wrong. Fergus could not shake the sense that much was amiss, though, and knew he would sleep no longer this night.

He rose and began to pack his belongings.

*

Anna awakened to darkness and the sound of a dog snoring.

For a moment, she was startled that she could see so little, but then she recalled where she was. The cavern was dark, and Bartholomew was curled behind her, one arm cast around her waist. The dog was at their feet.

Bartholomew's breathing was steady and his body cast a welcome heat. It was not unpleasant to be caught in such an embrace. Anna lay in the darkness and thought of all she knew of this man, this knight who challenged her expectations so much. She did not believe for a moment that he had declined his friend's offer of a place in his household with no clear plan of where to find his fortune. Indeed, she knew he was one to think far ahead.

Then what was his scheme? He must have a destination.

How curious that Bartholomew had been the one to guide their party to Haynesdale. Why?

Anna recalled that odd mark on his flesh, the one she had glimpsed in the bedchamber in Royce's hall. That Bartholomew had turned away and covered it so quickly convinced her that it was important.

It could not be.

Surely, her suspicion must be wrong.

There was but one way to be certain.

Anna eased away from Bartholomew, listening with care to his breathing. To her relief, it did not change.

She eased from the warmth of their bed, finding her chemise and drawing it on once again. Bartholomew dropped a hand to space she had vacated. To her dismay, he stirred. "Something amiss?" he asked, his tone so sleepy that she did not think he was truly awake.

"I must relieve myself," she whispered and he exhaled. He rolled to his back and his breathing deepened again.

Anna stood there and watched him for long moments, her heart thundering. She found the candle again, and the tinder. She turned her back upon him to strike the flint, wishing the sound was not so loud. She lit the candle and pivoted, pleased to see that he still slept.

Perhaps she had exhausted him with their lovemaking.

That might have made her smile if she had not been so intent on proving her suspicion right or wrong.

Anna cupped her hand around the flame and eased closer. Cenric lifted his head to give her an annoyed look, then yawned and burrowed his snout beneath his paws. He groaned a little, stretched, and began to snore again.

The candlelight played over Bartholomew as Anna drew nearer. He was on his back, his hair tousled, one hand flung out to the space she had abandoned. She smiled that his confidence was evident in his posture even when he slept. Even his lips had a slight curve, as if his dreams were merry. She could have simply stood and stared at him in the light of the candle, for he was a most alluring man.

But she wished to know.

She needed to know.

The tie of his chemise was yet undone and a generous expanse of golden flesh bare to view. Anna could see the pucker she had noted earlier. It was right over his heart, and her memory stirred with an old tale entrusted to her years before.

Surely it was but coincidence. Knights must have many scars, and surely any opponent of sense would strike at the heart. It must be a common location for a scar.

Still, her mouth was dry. Anna leaned closer, so the light played over him. Bartholomew did not stir. The mark was about the size of the last phalanx of her thumb and roughly oval. It was an old wound, to be sure, for it was not red and the hair on his chest had grown around it. She bent low and peered at the wound.

When she discerned the familiar wyvern rampant burned into his flesh, Anna was so shocked that she nearly dropped the candle.

She gasped and turned her back upon him. She tugged the lace that hung around her neck and in the candlelight, studied the token that she carried there. The same wyvern rampant graced the signet ring, save that it was the mirror image of the one impressed in Bartholomew's flesh.

He could not be the lost son returned.

But he was.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, awe flooding through her as she surveyed him anew. The rightful heir was returned to Haynesdale.

And she had been so bold as to bed him.

Anna's own audacity made her cheeks heat.

What should she say to him? What should she do?

Naught, she realized, feeling flustered as she had not been just moments before.

As much as she wished to run from the cavern and shout the truth to any who would listen, Anna knew the secret was not hers to share. She extinguished the candle and eased back into the space beside Bartholomew, a curious pleasure stealing through her when he gathered her close against his side.

She must hold his secret fast, just as she held all the others, and wait for his decision. The rightful baron must choose the path.

But she would do whatever he requested to see his rightful legacy restored. She closed her eyes and felt a tear on her cheek, relieved beyond all that the ordeal they had endured was soon to be ended.

The seed of Nicholas was returned and he was as valiant and just a man as they had all hoped he would be.

*

Bartholomew awakened to find Anna nestled on his one side and Cenric on the other. It was an improvement over their sleeping arrangements at Haynesdale keep, in his view, for he liked having Anna close.

But he knew what he had to do.

The dog wagged its tail as soon as Bartholomew sat up, and he rose carefully from the nest he and Anna had made for themselves. She must have been exhausted for she did not stir, even as he dressed. He cast the hauberk over one shoulder, knowing he would have to find some soul to assist him in donning it.

He watched her sleep, not wanting to leave. His urge to take her with him was folly, though. Doubtless they could have no future together and she would only be endangered in his company this day. He had no holding as yet, and thus no right to claim a woman's hand, and if he did manage to secure Haynesdale, it would be his destiny to make a strategic alliance. Indeed, the king might demand to make the match, as part of his agreement to bestow the holding upon Bartholomew. He thought of Lady Ysmaine's conviction that marriages were not based upon love, or even attraction, but good sense alone. Bartholomew reminded himself of all of this, and yet, he wished to linger with Anna.

He knew that if he awakened her to say farewell, he might lose himself in her charms once more.

What if she conceived his child? The notion made his chest clench, although he knew it was unlikely after just one night together. The possibility gave him more impetus to leave soon, for he could not be tempted to seduce her again. He would have to leave coin with someone who could be trusted to grant it to Anna in a way that she would not find insulting.

Bartholomew smiled, for that would be a feat.

He felt torn, but it was time to save Duncan, and thence to seek a way to earn the king's favor. Bartholomew would not achieve either by spending a day abed with Anna. He turned to leave, knowing what must be done.

Perhaps he had changed her view of knights. Perhaps he had achieved something of merit in this short interval in her company.

Perhaps it should be enough.

He left her wrapped in his cloak, tucking it around her so she would be warm. He took the crossbow and laid it on the cloak beside her.

He had promised its return when their paths parted.

He wished it had not been so soon.

Bartholomew paused at the opening of the cavern to watch Anna for another moment. It was likely he would not see her again. He was glad that she slept, for he doubted she would willingly be left behind, and he did not want their last words to be contentious.

He had to free Duncan, and he had to do it alone.

Bartholomew kissed his fingertips in silent salute, then strode into the forest with new purpose. It was snowing, fat flakes cascading from a pewter sky, and the dog loped along beside him. He smelled a fire before he saw the smoke and headed toward the villagers to request assistance. Percy appeared and smiled, then beckoned Bartholomew to join them. He led Bartholomew to Esme, who muttered over a pot set on the logs.

"Anna took you to the cavern, did she not?" the boy asked.

"Aye, she did. She sleeps this morn."

Esme nodded sagely. "'Twas the visit to the child's grave that did it." She exchanged a knowing glance with Bartholomew, then glanced pointedly at Percy.

"Percy, would you aid me with my hauberk?" Bartholomew asked. "Then I wish you would ensure Anna's safety while she sleeps."

The boy stood taller at the combination of these requests. He laced the back of Bartholomew's aketon with speed and enthusiasm, heeding the knight's quiet instruction. He faltered visibly under the weight of the hauberk, but doubtless recalled that Timothy was not much taller than he. He valiantly held it so Bartholomew could tug it over his head, and when it tumbled over the knight, the boy laced the back.

After Bartholomew donned his tabard, Percy buckled Bartholomew's belt for him, his fingers brushing the hilts of Bartholomew's blades with a kind of reverence. "I would be a knight," he murmured and Bartholomew thought it would be cruel to remind him that such a role was not his birthright.

"Then you must defend widows and orphans and treat all you know with honor."

"Even villains?"

"Especially villains. The mark of an honorable man is the respect he shows to all, whether they are worthy of his esteem or not."

Percy considered this. "But villains must be brought to justice."

"Which means they must come to a court, where judgment is made after consideration."

"That does not happen in Haynesdale's court."

"But once it did," Esme interjected.

"And once it may again," Bartholomew said. "Do not blame the court for the merit of the judge." He smiled at the boy, who was clearly thinking about this. "Now, go to Anna, please. Take Cenric with you, please."

Percy turned and ran through the forest. The dog hesitated, looking between knight and boy, until Bartholomew patted it and pointed. Cenric bounded after Percy then, and Bartholomew watched them go with satisfaction.

And a measure of regret. Would he return here after Duncan was free? He did not imagine as much. His own words haunted him, for claiming Haynesdale with violence was not the proper choice. He must appeal to the king for the restoration of his family holding, and might well be declined for lack of coin to pay an escheat. He would have liked to have kept the dog, but could not risk the creature's companionship when he ventured into Haynesdale for Duncan.

"There is porridge if you would have it," Esme said. "It is not fine, but it is warm."

"I would welcome it, thank you," Bartholomew said and sat on a log beside her. She served him a large portion of the porridge and gave him a wooden spoon. True to her word, steam rose from the contents of the wooden bowl. "You are generous," he noted. "Will this cheat another of their due?"

"You have greater need of it this day," she replied. "Unless I miss my guess."

He smiled. "You do indeed see much, Esme."

"It is the dreams," she said mildly. "I dreamed last night as I have not done in years."

"What did you dream about?" he asked, simply to be polite. He blew on a spoonful of porridge.

Esme sighed. "A fine lady. I had almost forgotten how fine she was, and kind."

"Had she a name?"

"Lady Gabriella of Haynesdale."

Bartholomew's heart skipped at the mention of his mother's name.

"She came to me when my youngest, Edgar, was born. Oswald played with her own son, a handsome dark-haired boy, right on the floor of the mill. They were of an age." She chuckled. "Amidst the grist, if you can imagine. The baron's own son."

"I can," Bartholomew admitted softly, remembering the very day.

Esme cast grain at her chickens, which pecked the earth around them with enthusiasm. "I was yet abed after the birthing and felt it disrespectful to remain thus when the lady herself came to visit, but she insisted that I rest. She fetched the child and admired him greatly." Esme shook her head. "It was Father Ignatius blessing Oswald, his wife and son yesterday that put such old memories in my thoughts, to be sure."

"To be sure," Bartholomew agreed, wondering whether there was more to it than that.

"And now you are away, perhaps not to return," she said.

"Again, you surprise me, Esme."

"You dismissed both boy and dog, and you must know they both would follow you to Hell itself. What do you mean to do this day?"

"My comrade is yet imprisoned inside Haynesdale. If I am right, the baron's men are yet in pursuit of my fellows. The keep may be as lightly defended as it will be in the foreseeable future."

"Yet your course is not without peril," Esme said. "So, you would go alone."

Bartholomew smiled into his porridge, not feeling it was necessary to agree. They sat in silence for a few moments and the porridge warmed his belly as he ate it. The chickens continued to peck the earth and Esme continued to cast them grain.

"How do you have grain?" Bartholomew asked.

Esme smiled. "I took all that was mine from the mill when we fled. The flour is gone, and there is little seed left but the birds must eat. We cannot till the seed, but we can eat the eggs."

Her words made Bartholomew think of how much labor would be required to rebuild the village and the prosperity of the holding. Where would he find so much coin?

"Did she tell you of the child?"

There was no doubt who Esme meant, and Bartholomew chose to be as direct as Anna. "Only that she felt responsible for Kendra's demise, for she believed the infant consigned to the forest because of her deeds."

Esme snorted. "And there is but a part of the tale, to be sure. Not even half, by my measure."

Bartholomew was intrigued. "How so?"

"Did she tell you of Kendra's father?"

He shook his head before he recalled her blindness. "Nay."

Esme sighed anew. "He was a boy of an age with Anna. I call him a boy, although of course, he grew to manhood and it was a man's deed that put that babe in Anna's belly. They were as thick as thieves, they two, always together, always in mischief as children, always daring each other to new feats. They fairly ran wild, but their hearts were good. He was the eldest of Wallace the plowman and his wife, Erna."

"Are they here?"

"Nay, they sent the boys but stayed in the village. Wallace wished to see the fields tilled, but he no longer has either horse or ox to pull the plow. Royce sold them a year ago, as if Wallace had not enough to bear."

"How so?"

"Kendrick and Anna resolved between them to see Anna's mother freed when she was arrested by the baron."

"Just over two years ago?"

"Aye. I do not know what they planned or how much havoc they managed to wreak, but they were captured instead." Esme frowned. "Kendrick was executed, his head hung upon the gates of Haynesdale as an example to us all of the price of treachery." She shook her head. "He was but a boy to me yet, though he had seen twenty summers."

Bartholomew set aside the remainder of his porridge.

"It was a month before Anna returned to us, bruised and filthy. She escaped that foul keep, naked, in the midst of the night. Perhaps they left her untended for they believed her near death. Perhaps another would have died or fallen broken in the road, but she is not one to surrender."

"Nay, not Anna," Bartholomew murmured.

"She crawled to the village, without being detected, and truly the elements were with her, for it was a foul and stormy night. She knocked and then collapsed outside my door. Oswald gathered her up, then declared that he could tolerate the cruelty no longer. We were all so fond of her, you know, and to see her in such a state was more than we could bear."

"I can well imagine."

"We fled that night, all of us, in the midst of that tempest, and made to take refuge in the forest. We were outlaws then, for we defied the will of the baron." She swallowed. "Oswald thought Sir Royce would see reason when the mill wheel ceased to turn and there was no flour for his bread. He thought we might be able to negotiate, for the baron needs his villeins as much as the peasants need their baron."

Bartholomew guessed that had not been the case. He waited, watching the play of emotion on the older woman's features.

"The others came soon after us, a tide of villagers fleeing the baron's wrath. The number of us in the forest was swelled beyond all expectation. We knew there had been those taking refuge in the forest already, but we did not find them before the baron's men were upon us. The knights encircled us, trapping us in a small space. They rode their steeds around us until the storm stopped and the stars came out overhead. We were wet and cold, fearful, even before they set the trees afire. I thought they would not burn after the fire, but the knights persisted until they did. Oswald saw that we would be killed. He made us flee before the circle was fully closed. I feared I would slow them too much. They would not leave me behind, my good sons." She halted then, her words turning husky. "Oswald on one side and Edgar on the other, then Willa stumbled and Oswald lifted me in his arms."

Bartholomew reached out and took her shaking hand. She clutched at his fingers and he felt her shaking. "You do not need to tell me of it."

"I do," Esme insisted. "I do . For Oswald lives only when his valor is remembered." She took a shaking breath. "He carried me, even as Rheda carried Anna and urged Nyle to speed. Edgar aided Willa, but they fell behind with their two young ones. Willa was with child and very near her time."

"Yet Rheda managed to carry Anna herself?"

"Anna was so thin, she might have been a child. We fled into the darkness, away from the fire, having no good sense of direction. A horse and rider appeared before us. I can see them yet. We turned and fled into the undergrowth, but were not fast enough. I was looking over my son's shoulder. I saw the warrior lift the crossbow. I saw him take aim and I closed my eyes to pray. But Oswald was struck. He stumbled once, then fell over me. Rheda was felled a moment later, Anna crushed beneath her. Nyle cried out and ran, though I reached for him. I know he did not get far for I heard his shout of pain." She shook her head and her tears fell. "I could not move. I did not want to move. Those I loved had been stolen from me, and there was only fire and death on all sides. Indeed, I wished only to die myself."

Bartholomew watched and listened, wishing he could change what had occurred.

"It is an evil thing for a mother to see her child die before she breathes her last," Esme said. "And her grandchild as well. That was a dark night, darker than any I have ever known, for I had no wish to survive. And so it was that Oswald protected me even in his death. I was overlooked by the marauding knights, for we were just another pair of corpses in the mire. A great burning ring of fire lit the sky that night, one that I shall never forget—for its heat, for its brilliance, for the sounds of those dying within its blaze."

"The new burn," Bartholomew murmured.

"It was uncommonly cold when I awakened, the sunlight so bright that it hurt my old eyes. The trees were blackened all around me, and smoke rose from the ashes. I thought I dreamed when I heard movement near me, for it seemed that all the world was dead and gone. It was Anna, her fingers grappling against the ground. I found my strength then, and moved from beneath Oswald. I cried out and Edgar found us, for he had been seeking us. He rolled Rheda away and found Anna alive. We stumbled away from there together, and soon those who lived as outlaws in the forest found us. They took us to their haven, clothed and fed us, and it was not long before Anna rounded with child. She named her Kendra."

"After the father."

Esme nodded. "Anna was not the sole one to see hope in that babe's birth, but I knew from the first that Kendra would not thrive. She was small and sickly, too thin and too pale." Esme bit her lip. "I was not surprised that the sweet babe did not survive her first winter, but I wept all the same."

Bartholomew held Esme's hand while she mastered her tears, hoping that his presence gave her strength. "I thank you for trusting me with the tale of Oswald," he said quietly, aware that others began to stir. "I would have liked to have known such a brave and good man." It was not a lie, for he had only a vague recollection of the miller's son. They had not known each other in truth, though they had met, that long ago morning on the floor of the mill.

"I thank you for your kindness, sir," Esme said, her words yet uneven.

Bartholomew was resolved then that although he could not change the past, he would affect the future of these people. How could the king be persuaded to take his cause? He did not know, but his first task was to free Duncan.

"And now you would leave us," she said, a hint of accusation in her tone.

"And now I would do what must be done," Bartholomew corrected.

"It will be dangerous."

"No man of merit shirks a dangerous obligation." Bartholomew took the purse from his belt and put it into the older woman's hands. "Please give this to Anna for me."

"Because you leave," Esme accused.

"She will want to spurn the gift, but I trust you to convince her otherwise." He heard his voice drop deeper. "There might be a child."

Esme caught her breath. "Coin will not be what she needs."

"But it is what I can give." Bartholomew lifted the older woman's hand and kissed her knuckles. "Be well, Esme. I hope our paths do cross again."

"As do I, sir. As do I."

Bartholomew stood and turned to stride away, but Esme cleared her throat so loudly that he glanced back.

"Ask Father Ignatius for his keys," she advised. "I have no doubt that he will entrust them to you, and your quest may be simpler."

Bartholomew smiled, for he had forgotten the priest's ring of keys. He had the key to the dungeon and had thought it sufficient. There had been others on that ring, though. "Indeed, it will, Esme. I thank you."

*

Anna awakened and stretched with leisure. She felt wondrous, both satisfied and desirous of more, both at ease and filled with anticipation.

Because of Bartholomew.

She smiled and reached for him, only to find herself alone.

Anna sat up with haste, her hair tumbling over her shoulders. She wore only her chemise though the fur-lined fullness of Bartholomew's cloak was wrapped around her. It was light at the mouth of the cavern and she could see fresh snow falling. She heard Percy playing with the dog and pulled the cloak over her shoulders. It was when she gave the cloth a tug that she discerned the weight upon it.

Her crossbow.

The pale wood shone on the dark wool cloth and she stared at it for a moment, wondering that Bartholomew had left it by her side. The quiver of bolts was beside the candle and tinderbox.

Where was his armor?

Why could she not hear his voice?

Filled with dread, Anna swept to her feet. She was not reassured to discover that every piece of Bartholomew's garb was gone, save the cloak, as well as every weapon, save the crossbow. She hastened to the opening of the cave in time to see Percy cast a stick for Cenric, who raced after it, tail wagging.

There was no knight watching them.

There were no other footprints in the snow.

Bartholomew was gone and had been gone for some time.

Worse, he had no intention of returning. The crossbow made that most clear—he had vowed to give it to her when he left Haynesdale for good.

But he was the rightful heir! He could not abandon them now.

"Anna!" Percy cried and raced toward her, his eyes glowing. The dog ran right behind him, still carrying the stick. "Bartholomew bade me stand guard while you slept."

Cenric came to lean on Anna, his tail wagging in welcome.

"He is gone then?"

"Aye, at the dawn."

"Do you know where?"

Her brother gave her a disparaging glance. "To save his friend, of course. That is what good knights do."

He had gone to Haynesdale keep. And once he had freed Duncan—if he succeeded in doing so—he would leave.

Anna's lips set and she turned back to the cavern to dress in haste. Bartholomew would not follow his scheme without hearing her thoughts on the matter first. The rightful heir could not simply ride away. It was his obligation to help the villagers of Haynesdale.

If Bartholomew had forgotten as much, Anna would be more than glad to remind him.

*

Haynesdale keep was even more quiet than Bartholomew had expected.

There was only one guard at the gate and that man seemed to doze at his post. Two men walked the summit of the wall, but their manner was desultory. The snow was beginning to fall more thickly and he wondered whether they were cold. He would have been, if his heart had not been beating with such vigor.

How many more were there? He knew four had ridden out in pursuit of their party the day before. Had those men returned? Had the Captain of the Guard ridden out, or did he remain at the keep? Bartholomew did not have a full tally of how many warriors labored beneath Royce's hand. He could not hear horses at all and the village could have been a graveyard.

There would be Lady Marie and her maids, of course, but surely she lingered abed on a winter morn like this one. He had to assume that some servants were in the kitchens, so he would avoid that area as well as the great hall itself.

He eyed the keys Father Ignatius had given him. The smallest one was for the chapel in the village, though the priest had confessed it was not locked. There were no valuables there any longer and Father Ignatius did not wish to deny those remaining villagers the solace of prayer in a sacred space.

The next, which was nigh the same size but more ornate, was for the treasury in the keep's chapel, where the reliquary had been secured.

The next largest was for the chapel within the keep.

The fourth opened a portal in the curtain wall near the chapel.

The final key in his possession was the large plain key to the dungeon that Father Ignatius had given him earlier. Bartholomew considered the fourth key and recalled the layout of the keep.

The chapel was on the far side of the bailey. Bartholomew had not noticed the door in the wall near it, but he had not been seeking it. It might be the easiest way into the keep.

He eased around the perimeter of the keep, remaining in the shadows of the forest. He moved only when the sentries were turned away, for he could not rely upon the bare trees to hide him completely. The snow fell more quickly, making the world seem silent.

That only meant that sound carried farther. He could hear the footfalls of the sentries, for example.

On the far side of the keep, Bartholomew hid behind a tree, waiting for the sentries to turn their course toward the front gate. If he made any sound on this flight to the wall, they would discern him and raise their bows. Once against the wall, he would be out of their view again. He peered around the tree and eyed the distance. It was a good hundred paces, all devoid of cover. Snow covered it all like a blanket of white, disguising any small obstacles. There was a depression before the sides of the motte rose to the curtain wall, and he wondered how deep the moat was on this side. He had to believe it was frozen.

The guards paused to chat directly over the door. One gestured to the forest and Bartholomew slipped behind the tree again, fearing he had been discovered. He heard the other laugh, then the grind of heels on the walkway. They had parted ways and each were pacing a solitary circuit back toward the gates.

Bartholomew took a deep breath and ran.

He eyed the parapet as he reached the moat, then said a prayer as he took the first step. He slipped down quickly and feared that he would be plunged into icy water—then his boots slid on ice. He was up to his knees in snow, but at least the moat was frozen. He slid across it, unable to keep from disturbing the snow, scrambled on to the opposite bank, and slipped. He slammed one knee on the lip of stone that confined the moat and closed his eyes at the pain. There was no time to linger, though. He limped onward, wincing as he barreled up the steep slope and fairly tossing himself against the curtain wall.

He was panting, and sweat ran down his back. He stood there for a long moment, but there was no cry of discovery.

To Bartholomew's dismay, his path from the forest was abundantly clear. The sentries would not fail to see it when they reached this point on the curtain wall again. That was sufficient to send him hastening on. He eased along the wall to the door, fitted the key into the lock and turned it, wondering what he would find on the other side. He kicked the snow away from the bottom of the door, drew his knife and opened the door cautiously.

It gave into a corner beside the chapel, one tucked into the shadows beside the armory. In truth, Royce's armory was no more than a lean-to, with the only closed wall being that of the curtain wall behind it. It was hung thickly with armor and weapons, and he guessed that a smith might set up a forge just outside it when necessary. The array of armament cast many shadows, though, and gave him places to hide. The stable had a wall on this side with a door, so the steeds could not reveal his presence. The bailey was beyond, empty and wide, a space he had to cross to reach the entry to the dungeon. He closed the door behind himself and eased into the armory to consider his course.

A warrior stood at the portal on the far side of the armory and clearly was not vigilant about his duties. The man yawned as he tugged up his gloves. This one was sturdy in build, though it was unclear whether sloth or indulgence was at root. Bartholomew wondered how loyal the men employed by Royce were to their lord baron. He certainly did not discern many signs of enthusiasm or dedication. He considered the man's helm, which disguised his face, and his tabard, marked with Royce's insignia.

The wyvern rampant of Haynesdale.

Bartholomew picked up a length of rope as he moved stealthily through the shadows of the armory, and then a bolt for a crossbow. He crept up behind the other man, then flung the bolt into the armor at the left. The man spun at the sound, his blade at the ready, but Bartholomew jumped him from the other side. They scuffled but Bartholomew had surprise on his side. He knocked the warrior hard on the head so that he lost consciousness, then stole his helm, his knife and his tabard. He left the warrior trussed in the armory, a length of his own tabard knotted over the man to silence him.

He took the man's cloak and fastened it over his shoulders, holding it closed to disguise that he was more trim than his victim. Garbed as a knight of the household, Bartholomew crossed the bailey openly. He ensured that his pace was steady, as if all was routine. One sentry hailed him by name—Hermann—and he waved a greeting in reply, for the sound of his voice might reveal him. He was glad to step into the shadow of the hall, but scarce took the time for a reassuring breath.

Bartholomew went directly to the dungeon. He unlocked the portal and kicked the rope ladder into the space. "Hurry yourself, varmint," he growled. "You are given one last chance to say your prayers, but any protest will see the baron's mercy withdrawn."

"Mercy," Duncan repeated, his disgust clear. "What does this man know of mercy, much less justice? I decline to be dragged to a priest to ease his fears!"

Bartholomew strove to keep his frustration from his voice. "I command you, prisoner, to hasten yourself." He peered into the shadows below, only to find Duncan glaring up at him, the other man's expression most stubborn.

"And I command all of you to hasten yourselves to Hell," Duncan retorted.

Bartholomew gritted his teeth. He glanced about himself, but there was no one else in view. "Duncan," he muttered. "Hurry!"

Duncan took a step back, then peered at him with suspicion. "Who are you to call me by name?"

Bartholomew swore. He hauled off the helmet and savored Duncan's surprise. "Hasten yourself, worm!" he muttered, glad to see that the other man finally heeded his command. Duncan climbed the ladder, and Bartholomew found it somewhat satisfying to push him into the wall and bind his hands behind his back.

"Temper, lad," Duncan murmured.

"I should leave you behind," Bartholomew retorted in an undertone, though he would not do as much. "When last did a prisoner refuse to be saved?" He dropped the trap door in place again and turned the key in the lock. He raised his voice as he pushed Duncan forward. "Do not be so fool as to test me again, knave," he said in a louder voice and shoved Duncan into the bailey.

As he had anticipated, the sentries on the parapet turned to watch. Bartholomew continued to push Duncan or drag him by the rope, and Duncan stumbled repeatedly in the snow, as if weakened by his ordeal.

Bartholomew hoped the other warrior pretended to be in worse shape than he was. If Duncan could not run, they would not manage to flee the gates. The other man certainly smelled foul, and his plaid was stained. There was a mighty bruise upon his cheek, but Bartholomew was encouraged by the glint of resolve in Duncan's eyes.

The sentries jested and pointed, enjoying Duncan's situation more than could be admired. One crowed that he would see Duncan at his execution.

"Did you have the chance to defend yourself in his court?" Bartholomew demanded quietly, for he did not see how it could have been done so quickly.

"What court?" Duncan muttered and spat in the snow. "This one knows naught of justice. You can see the mark of it on all his holding. Pity the poor wretches condemned to live beneath his hand."

Bartholomew said naught to that, but unlocked the door to the chapel and cast Duncan through it. The other man contrived to fall through the portal and land on his knees, which amused the sentries greatly.

Bartholomew shut the portal behind them and abandoned Duncan, making haste for the hidden reliquary.

"Where do you mean to hide it?" Duncan asked. He did not move from his spot inside the door, as if conserving his strength. Bartholomew tried to not think overmuch about it.

"I will suddenly develop a paunch, the better to resemble the knight whose tabard I claimed," he said

Duncan grinned than, he looked most tired.

"Are you sufficiently hale?" Bartholomew had to ask.

"I have been better, lad, that much is certain. Fear not. I will not slow you down."

Bartholomew nodded and struggled to fit the key into the lock. The helm would provide an admirable defense against arrows, but he could not see clearly. How backward was this realm that the knight's visors were not hinged? He cast off the helm and fitted the key into the lock with ease. He turned it, opened the sanctuary and stared at its emptiness with shock.

"What is amiss?" Duncan asked.

"It is gone!" Bartholomew turned to face his companion, uncertain what to do. The portal to the bailey opened in that moment, and Duncan gasped. There was not time to shut the cupboard and don his helm both, and Bartholomew managed neither before Lady Marie swept into the chapel.

She took one look at him, then gestured to the maid who must be following her but as yet out of sight. "I will pray alone this morn," she commanded, shut the portal, and leaned back against it.

Silence crackled in the chapel. Bartholomew returned Marie's gaze, and Duncan looked between them, clearly uncertain what to expect.

Then Marie smiled and strolled toward Bartholomew. "Now here is a tale," she said softly, and not without satisfaction.

Did she know about the reliquary at all?

Did she know its location?

Would she reveal them?

A thousand possible lies flicked through his thoughts, not a one of them convincing, and his heart stopped cold. Duncan remained on his knees and perhaps he prayed in truth.

The lady swept past the older man, her confidence clear as she approached Bartholomew. "I believe you might find my offer of assistance more savory on this day, sir," she purred and offered her hand to him.

Bartholomew hesitated only for a moment before he took her hand and kissed it. Would she truly help them escape?

Could he truly give her what she desired?

His moral code fought against his awareness of what he knew she wanted of him, but survival had to be worth some sacrifice.

Lady Marie's could have been higher, to be sure.