hope was to hide within this closet of sorts, wait for the priest to fall asleep and sneak past him.
She heard him enter and, over a woman’s sobbing, listened to him chant a prayer, offer condolences, speak of the husband being now in heaven and a son who would not know his father. The woman’s sobs softened but reverberated through Apryll’s heart. This was only one widow, one child left fatherless. How many other lives had Payton taken?
Apryll had known there were risks, of course, that some lives might be sacrificed, but Payton had assured her that there was little chance of death, that unless something went terribly wrong with his plan, no one would be seriously injured. He’d been certain that most of the inhabitants of Black Thorn would be a part of the celebration and those left to guard the keep would be drunk or listless and that he would easily subdue them. “’Twill be easy to take their weapons and bind and gag them,” he’d said when she’d asked how he intended to get past the guards. “I have people within the keep, yes, sister, spies who know where the sentries will be, and they are certain that they will be able to offer the guards ale and mead and wine, enough that our small party will pass by unnoticed.”
What a ninny she’d been to believe him. Now, sitting in this cobweb-infested closet, listening to a grieving widow’s moans and a child’s innocent, troubled questions she felt a horrid sense of guilt. She would never be able to make things right. Not since lives had been lost. She ventured a peek through the crack between curtain and doorjamb and her heart twisted when she saw, in the flickering candlelight, the portly priest softly praying, one fleshy hand upon a woman’s dark crown, a child of two or three hanging onto his mother’s skirts. His eyes were smudged from lack of sleep and he sucked his thumb anxiously.
You caused this woman to become a widow.
’Twas your doing that this boy will never know his father.
Somehow, someway, you must repay these people—return the boy to begin with and then face Lord Devlynn.
If you get the chance. Mayhap Payton has already usurped your power. Even now, he could be on his way back to Serennog, proclaiming himself lord.
Soon she heard the woman and child leave, the shuffling of feet, then the quiet . . . as if the chamber were empty. She’d been certain the priest would enter his bedchamber, but she heard nothing save for the scratch of claws, mice scurrying behind the walls of her self-imposed prison.
Should she brave it?
Tentatively, she edged the drape aside, carefully peering past the edge of the curtain. She stepped into the priest’s bedchamber, her ears straining. The chapel was empty. She made two steps toward the door when she heard footsteps on the path. Quickly she withdrew, through the bedchamber and into the cursed closet again. She swiped the curtain closed and stepped back, to rest against the door, but when she placed her hand behind her to feel for the hard oaken planks, her wrist was caught by a hand with fingers like steel.
“Oh!” she whirled, but the manacle only tightened.
“Who the devil are you—?” Lord Devlynn demanded in the darkness and her knees nearly crumpled. He dragged her through the open doorway and up a flight of curved stairs, yanking on her arm, forcing her to follow him ever upward until at last he pushed open another door and yanked her into a wide chamber where a fire glowed and candles burned bright. Tapestries and weapons decorated the walls and a huge bed sat squarely before the grate. Her heart sank, for she knew she was in the baron’s private chamber.
This was it.
There was no escape.
Her destiny, was that not what the sorceress, Geneva, had proclaimed?
Gritting her teeth and squaring her shoulders she inched her chin upward to stare into the furious gray eyes of the beast of Black Thorn. The fingers around her wrist nearly crushed her bones.
“Lady Apryll,” he whispered
She heard him enter and, over a woman’s sobbing, listened to him chant a prayer, offer condolences, speak of the husband being now in heaven and a son who would not know his father. The woman’s sobs softened but reverberated through Apryll’s heart. This was only one widow, one child left fatherless. How many other lives had Payton taken?
Apryll had known there were risks, of course, that some lives might be sacrificed, but Payton had assured her that there was little chance of death, that unless something went terribly wrong with his plan, no one would be seriously injured. He’d been certain that most of the inhabitants of Black Thorn would be a part of the celebration and those left to guard the keep would be drunk or listless and that he would easily subdue them. “’Twill be easy to take their weapons and bind and gag them,” he’d said when she’d asked how he intended to get past the guards. “I have people within the keep, yes, sister, spies who know where the sentries will be, and they are certain that they will be able to offer the guards ale and mead and wine, enough that our small party will pass by unnoticed.”
What a ninny she’d been to believe him. Now, sitting in this cobweb-infested closet, listening to a grieving widow’s moans and a child’s innocent, troubled questions she felt a horrid sense of guilt. She would never be able to make things right. Not since lives had been lost. She ventured a peek through the crack between curtain and doorjamb and her heart twisted when she saw, in the flickering candlelight, the portly priest softly praying, one fleshy hand upon a woman’s dark crown, a child of two or three hanging onto his mother’s skirts. His eyes were smudged from lack of sleep and he sucked his thumb anxiously.
You caused this woman to become a widow.
’Twas your doing that this boy will never know his father.
Somehow, someway, you must repay these people—return the boy to begin with and then face Lord Devlynn.
If you get the chance. Mayhap Payton has already usurped your power. Even now, he could be on his way back to Serennog, proclaiming himself lord.
Soon she heard the woman and child leave, the shuffling of feet, then the quiet . . . as if the chamber were empty. She’d been certain the priest would enter his bedchamber, but she heard nothing save for the scratch of claws, mice scurrying behind the walls of her self-imposed prison.
Should she brave it?
Tentatively, she edged the drape aside, carefully peering past the edge of the curtain. She stepped into the priest’s bedchamber, her ears straining. The chapel was empty. She made two steps toward the door when she heard footsteps on the path. Quickly she withdrew, through the bedchamber and into the cursed closet again. She swiped the curtain closed and stepped back, to rest against the door, but when she placed her hand behind her to feel for the hard oaken planks, her wrist was caught by a hand with fingers like steel.
“Oh!” she whirled, but the manacle only tightened.
“Who the devil are you—?” Lord Devlynn demanded in the darkness and her knees nearly crumpled. He dragged her through the open doorway and up a flight of curved stairs, yanking on her arm, forcing her to follow him ever upward until at last he pushed open another door and yanked her into a wide chamber where a fire glowed and candles burned bright. Tapestries and weapons decorated the walls and a huge bed sat squarely before the grate. Her heart sank, for she knew she was in the baron’s private chamber.
This was it.
There was no escape.
Her destiny, was that not what the sorceress, Geneva, had proclaimed?
Gritting her teeth and squaring her shoulders she inched her chin upward to stare into the furious gray eyes of the beast of Black Thorn. The fingers around her wrist nearly crushed her bones.
“Lady Apryll,” he whispered
Similar Books
