soldier called, hauling Seth out of the stables. Apryll flew into the stalls, tearing at the tethers, setting the crazed animals free. Hooves slashed, wild, white-rimmed eyes rolled and horses bolted into the bailey.
“Fire!”
“My God, it’s a fire! Get the buckets . . .”
Horses and men ran through the bailey as the stables filled with smoke and hellish flames crawled over the beams and straw, crackling and spitting and smoking. Apryll ran to the well where men were already drawing buckets and women were running with wet sacks. She grabbed one of the sacks and ran into the stables, attacking the flames, praying that, once the fire was under control, she could make good her escape.
This is Payton’s doing. He’s killed men. Horses. Stolen from the baron and kidnapped his son. As she flayed at the flames, coughing and breathing in smoke, she realized her brother would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. Even if it meant killing the baron’s son.
Chapter Five
“Fire!”
“Fire in the stables!”
“Curse it all!” Devlynn was already on his way out of the keep. Now he bolted, shoving open the door and racing into the night. Outside the wind was high, the night clear aside from the smell of smoke. Moonlight washed against the castle walls and glistened in the dry winter grass where servants, soldiers and guests had taken up wet sacks and pails. Horses ran throughout the bailey and the dogs barked wildly. Men and women shouted, children cried and pandemonium reigned.
He rushed down a well-trodden path where, beneath sweeps of the windmill, ice sparkled in puddles. Ancient gears creaked and men carried buckets of water from the stream and the well. Devlynn grabbed two pails and carried them toward the stables where the fire was smoldering.
“What happened?” he demanded of one of the soldiers whose face was blackened with soot.
“I know not. The stable master, Seth, was stabbed when the fire broke out.”
“Stabbed?” Devlynn growled, dousing a few remaining flames. The fire sizzled and hissed but slowly died.
“Aye, when the horses were taken.”
“’Twas not an accident?”
“Nay. Before he died, Seth said that the men who had taken Yale stabbed him.”
“Men?” He repeated. “No woman?”
“Nay, not that he said.”
“But they had my boy with them and he was alive?” Devlynn demanded.
“I . . . I know not.” The guard lifted a brawny shoulder. “’Twas Henry who spoke to Seth.”
Devlynn eyed the warm, sizzling ashes. Most of the stables had been saved, it seemed, though the beams were charred, the walls blackened, the smell of water-soaked, burned wood dispersing into the cold winter air. Some of the guards were rounding up the horses.
So where was Apryll of Serennog? If she had not escaped with the men who had taken his boy, was she still trapped within the keep? Or had she escaped alone? He searched the eyes of the men and women in the bailey. Could she still be hiding within these very walls? Two men, maybe more, had taken his son, but what of the woman?
His jaw grew tight as he thought of how easily she’d deceived him, how he’d been drawn to her beauty and wit, how warm and supple her body had felt against his, how boldly she’d kissed him. “An angel,” Aunt Violet had called her, but the old lady had been sadly mistaken, for Apryll of Serennog was far from holy. If anything, she was Lucifer’s mistress.
Jaw tight, he strode to the stables which smoldered from the fire damage. Lanterns glowed. Men barked orders. Horses shifted nervously as saddles were strapped to their broad backs.
Two soldiers were carrying the body of the dead stable master outside. The man’s young widow, Grace, clutching her three-year-old son, followed after them, shivering and wailing and trying to cling to a body that would never move again. “Nooo,” she cried, over and over again, though Father Luke, a short, squat man, was following after her, offering a weary shoulder and
“Fire!”
“My God, it’s a fire! Get the buckets . . .”
Horses and men ran through the bailey as the stables filled with smoke and hellish flames crawled over the beams and straw, crackling and spitting and smoking. Apryll ran to the well where men were already drawing buckets and women were running with wet sacks. She grabbed one of the sacks and ran into the stables, attacking the flames, praying that, once the fire was under control, she could make good her escape.
This is Payton’s doing. He’s killed men. Horses. Stolen from the baron and kidnapped his son. As she flayed at the flames, coughing and breathing in smoke, she realized her brother would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. Even if it meant killing the baron’s son.
Chapter Five
“Fire!”
“Fire in the stables!”
“Curse it all!” Devlynn was already on his way out of the keep. Now he bolted, shoving open the door and racing into the night. Outside the wind was high, the night clear aside from the smell of smoke. Moonlight washed against the castle walls and glistened in the dry winter grass where servants, soldiers and guests had taken up wet sacks and pails. Horses ran throughout the bailey and the dogs barked wildly. Men and women shouted, children cried and pandemonium reigned.
He rushed down a well-trodden path where, beneath sweeps of the windmill, ice sparkled in puddles. Ancient gears creaked and men carried buckets of water from the stream and the well. Devlynn grabbed two pails and carried them toward the stables where the fire was smoldering.
“What happened?” he demanded of one of the soldiers whose face was blackened with soot.
“I know not. The stable master, Seth, was stabbed when the fire broke out.”
“Stabbed?” Devlynn growled, dousing a few remaining flames. The fire sizzled and hissed but slowly died.
“Aye, when the horses were taken.”
“’Twas not an accident?”
“Nay. Before he died, Seth said that the men who had taken Yale stabbed him.”
“Men?” He repeated. “No woman?”
“Nay, not that he said.”
“But they had my boy with them and he was alive?” Devlynn demanded.
“I . . . I know not.” The guard lifted a brawny shoulder. “’Twas Henry who spoke to Seth.”
Devlynn eyed the warm, sizzling ashes. Most of the stables had been saved, it seemed, though the beams were charred, the walls blackened, the smell of water-soaked, burned wood dispersing into the cold winter air. Some of the guards were rounding up the horses.
So where was Apryll of Serennog? If she had not escaped with the men who had taken his boy, was she still trapped within the keep? Or had she escaped alone? He searched the eyes of the men and women in the bailey. Could she still be hiding within these very walls? Two men, maybe more, had taken his son, but what of the woman?
His jaw grew tight as he thought of how easily she’d deceived him, how he’d been drawn to her beauty and wit, how warm and supple her body had felt against his, how boldly she’d kissed him. “An angel,” Aunt Violet had called her, but the old lady had been sadly mistaken, for Apryll of Serennog was far from holy. If anything, she was Lucifer’s mistress.
Jaw tight, he strode to the stables which smoldered from the fire damage. Lanterns glowed. Men barked orders. Horses shifted nervously as saddles were strapped to their broad backs.
Two soldiers were carrying the body of the dead stable master outside. The man’s young widow, Grace, clutching her three-year-old son, followed after them, shivering and wailing and trying to cling to a body that would never move again. “Nooo,” she cried, over and over again, though Father Luke, a short, squat man, was following after her, offering a weary shoulder and
Similar Books
