Blackheart (29 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Treason

The
Royal,
the
Ranger
and
Satan’s
Victory
anchored in a cove near the British coast. Months after Zore imprisoned Lochlanaire on the island of Satan’s Labyrinth, the ships lingered out of sight, for they did not want anyone to hear about the
Royal’s
presence and the precious treasure it had become.

Aboard the
Royal
, Siren impatiently waited, seeing the four horses drawing a coach arriving from London stalled ashore. Aynore nobly exited from the carriage and sashayed alongside the
Royal’s
pirates to a beached longboat. The craft immediately rowed to the ship. Siren peered downward from the vessel’s rim upon the woman, hollering to Aynore, “What occurred?” Shevaun halted directly beside Siren, and chastised her sister to be calm, reminding her of her frail condition. Siren had suffered an arduous pregnancy thus far, and the lass was now heavily burdened by Lochlanaire’s babe.

Siren ignored her sister. She swooped on Aynore. “Tell me,” Siren insisted.

Aynore caught her breath as she boarded the ship and said, “An immediate audience is bestowed to you, Siren. Lochlanaire’s been jailed for your death and for his treason as was sworn to the king by Zore. And he, the brutal rogue, has been bequeathed a grand reward for his lies he told, damnin’ Lochlanaire guilty. Zore’s received Lochlanaire’s title, his manor, gold, everything. Lochlanaire’s sentence is death, Siren. I cannot say if you brandish the power to soothe the beast that is this diabolical king. It may be folly to challenge William. You could easily be imprisoned.”

Siren darted to the ship’s edge. “I refuse to allow my husband to die, no matter what wickedness I confront. Grayson, accompany me.” Pleating her regal gown’s hem, Siren cautiously descended the ship’s ladder to the longboat, assisted therein to sit.

Grayson rowed them ashore and to the enclosed carriage that awaited for which to ferry them to the king’s palace in London.

Hours lapsed. The rattling coach arrived at the palace, roaring behind the magnificent stone structure. Siren exited from the stalled carriage and Grayson attended with the beauty’s stern insistence as her guard and chaperone. Wearing a stylish ruby dress that sparkled with gold flecks woven throughout its broadly flared skirt and low-dipping bodice, Siren brushed the skirt and patted her upswept ebony locks. She situated the fan-shaped, diamond-encrusted comb skewering her hair. Siren then proceeded along the imposing palace, escorted to the mirrored, gold-glittery throne room where once Lochlanaire tended the king upon being pardoned months earlier. Entering, with Grayson pacing the chamber as a feral panther, Siren prayed for her deception to ensue in accordance to her longing.

With a flip of his regal purple robes, King William entered the chamber, his rancorous glance skimmed from Grayson to Siren. She approached the throne while the king sat. He pondered them succinctly.

Siren curtsied. At King William’s approving nod and flourish of his hand, she straightened, a princess valiantly challenging his snooty eyes. “I come, Your Majesty, to plead for Lochlanaire Blackheart’s life. I am his wife, Siren Rain Blackheart. I bear his child, so you may attest by my appearance. These parchments announce our legitimate marriage.” She tendered to him the parchments that her bodice concealed.

“I fail to see…”

“If I may be bold, Your Highness, I am the woman you commanded Lochlanaire to hunt and convey to you. I am King James II’s daughter, the daughter borne of an illicit affair he had with my mother, Emerald Aiden Rain. She was a commoner, of whom Lochlanaire as well was ordered to chase and execute.”

“I was given to understand that you were slain at Lochlanaire’s traitorous mutiny. Zore Blackheart enlightened me of his devious treason, for which Lochlanaire is now prisoner and awaits the noose of death. What evidence lies in your grasp which provides proof of your claim that you’re King James II’s
true
daughter?” Forthrightly, King William recognized the woman the moment he’d walked into the chamber.

“I guard a ring. It is King James II’s ruby signet. I trust it is what you hunt. The ring possesses a carving and reveals a seafaring chart that depicts an island where a treasure is said to be entombed. However, I shall not sacrifice my father’s signet to you until Lochlanaire is freed of his prison and my decree is satisfied,” Siren assured.

“You barter for a rebel’s freedom?”

“Yes. I trust the fortune of King James II significant treasure for Your Majesty to bequest one man’s life. And he is no rebel, Your Majesty. Lochlanaire forfeited his life, wanton to spare me of you so I would not be beheaded.”

King William was insulted by her suggestion that he itched for her death. “You surely do not wage such adulterous words against me. You shall find yourself jailed for sacrilege.”

Siren mischievously smiled. “I think not, Your Highness. My father’s ring is not in my protection presently, and it will not be furnished to you unless I walk from this chamber alive, unharmed and unshackled.” Reaching inside her gown’s throat again, Siren produced a piece of parchment, which depicted the ruby signet but only vaguely detailed. “At Lochlanaire’s freedom, I shall forgo the signet. You will immediately pardon Lochlanaire of all treason, murder, and any other dishonorable desecration he’s said to have wrecked, and will absolve his assassin ties to this kingdom. He and I shall sail from this island’s shores, never to be a burden to you -- that is
after
you have everything scribed on parchment. I, as well, will never be hunted by you or any man, assassin, or otherwise. I renounce all claim to the crown. Am I understood?”

Procuring no other choice, King William relented. “Agreed. And if I recover no treasure with this chart the signet is said to portray?”

Siren shrugged. “I cannot say if a treasure ever existed. It could be a ruse. Nevertheless, it is the chance you assume when chasing elusive gold.”

King William nodded. “We’ve struck an alliance.”

Siren nodded her agreement. “Have the parchments scribed and bring Lochlanaire to this location.” She offered another parchment sliver. “The signet will be transported to you by messenger once we are far distant of these shores.”

“You distrust me?”

“I possess absolutely no reason to trust you,
Cousin.
” Siren lurched her head haughtily high and sashayed from the royal chamber.

Grayson grinned and reflected her slipper-clad footfalls.

Peeved, King William shouted for his guard, studying the parchment painting that illustrated half of the signet’s details, never aware of the treason, which had justly befallen him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Deliverance

Caged in the asylum of Heathgate Castle, Lochlanaire paced, his feral eyes scorned the iron bars surrounding him while lanterns haloed the pit that is the reeking dungeon. Groaning, for the death knell song was struck up freshly by the prisoners, Lochlanaire cursed the torturous chant, knowing it had become a ritual to sing it amid those who are captive. He despised Thorn for his skill to destroy his sanity. He stomped to the cell’s rear wall, craving to crush the memories stabbing his violated soul. Rats shied away from his footsteps.

The sneering guard jingled brass keys along the iron bars, jolting his prisoner to the plaguing moment. He flipped to Lochlanaire the shackles that were linked, a chain dangling between them. The guard’s loaded pistol motioned for Lochlanaire to lock the blood-bathed irons ‘round his dirt-smudged wrists.

“Come to torture me, eh?” Lochlanaire quipped.

The guard huffed, gesturing the pistol afresh. Lochlanaire obeyed as he requested, dragging the cuffs off the dirt floor. He positioned them around his wrists and locked the irons. Unlocking the gate, the guard jabbed his pistol mid of Lochlanaire’s back and urged him toward the stone stairs. They ignored the mad rants of which echoed, the other prisoners moaning, weeping and wailing. Lochlanaire was cruelly reminded of the day upon which he’d been granted a reprieve of this hellish cavern belonging to Lucifer. He opposed his memory, wishing that it was smothered, as then, in a blackened void, not infused with rapturous images of Siren which crushed his heart.

At the dungeon’s door, on the stairs’ landing, Lochlanaire was jolted to halt under the guard’s thrash of the chain. Godly light shrouded the blinded prisoner. “You, Lochlanaire Blackheart, are summoned to chambers. Guard, escort the prisoner to the bath, prepare him, and, thereafter, usher him to the coach.”

Lochlanaire peered anxiously at the celestial creature of whom he never did fully see. “What’s to become of me?”

“Never ye mind. Guard.”

The pistol shoved against his gut, Lochlanaire was conducted to the same bedchamber where he’d bathed ages ago. His shackles were removed by the grumbling guard. He was left alone with a luxuriant oval tub that delighted, filled by cooling water, clothing hanging at his fingertips, alongside leather boots. Lochlanaire faltered with his bewildered conscious. Certainly, they wouldn’t want a man to bathe prior to his execution.

What, then, did all this mean?

Shrugging, Lochlanaire tossed the filthy, moth-riddled rags from his bruised body and noted his scarred shoulder where two shots once pierced his flesh. Lochlanaire’s glance drifted to the ragged scar blighting his thigh where Thorn’s sword skewered his flesh and from which Zore ripped the blade loose.

Silencing riveting memories of Siren’s teary eyes as she couldn’t save him from Zore’s cutthroat iniquities, Lochlanaire moved to the tub and washed the stench off his flesh. A food trencher adorned a table. Lochlanaire chomped on milky cheeses and succulent strawberries, his mind troubled, for he did not comprehend what occurred which presented such a noble deed. After he dried himself, using the sheer linen cloth provided, Lochlanaire tugged on the pale blue linen shirt and sable breeches, pulling on the boots that swathed to his knees.

The guard escorted Lochlanaire at pistol point along the castle to a coach, garnishing the bastion’s rear entrance. Signaling Lochlanaire to step within, the guard knocked on the carriage’s roof. The horse drawn coach rumbled on its journey, swaying throughout the crowded fiords of London. Convinced that he’d retrieve nothing from the bloodthirsty sentry, Lochlanaire surveyed the dust-smeared scene the window furnished, smitten that soon the carriage was lengthily away of London with no arrival at Execution Dock. After hours of sitting in the jostling coach, the carriage heaved to an abrupt standstill. Lochlanaire glanced at the guard for an answer. He scowled and simply threw to Lochlanaire a rolled parchment, and then he threw open the coach door and ordered Lochlanaire out. Shrugging, Lochlanaire stepped to the ground. The coach bolted away, leaving him bathed beneath a dusty cloud, and disappeared to sight. What spell bewitched him?

Multi-colored flower sprigs dotted a path and coerced Lochlanaire to walk along a lush green vale, bejeweled by a breeze-jittery forest. The flowers vanished central of the copse atop a slight hill. Lochlanaire dove outward his arms, palms up, thinking he’d been summoned here for treasonous purposes. He shouted, “I’m here. Show yourself, brigand!”

“Do you mean
enchantress
?” echoed a female voice, ferried on the wings of the angelic breeze.

Lochlanaire turned in the direction he thought the voice resonated from and chirped, “You’ve beckoned me for a reason. Who are you? What do you ask of me?”

“I ask for submission to your queen,” resonated the reply. Easing around a tree’s trunk, Siren leaned on its bark, her ebony eyes caressing the breath-wrenching rake who stole her heart. Lochlanaire whirled in her direction. “You’re correct, Lochlanaire, I
have
had you beckoned here for a purpose, for you to bow to
my
every lusty whim.” Siren glided toward Lochlanaire, who was enthralled, almost thinking her an enchantment of his dreams. “ ‘Til the sun will not shine, the moon hides, all life fades, the stars are fogged by darkness, and the rain refuses to fall, I swear, Lochlanaire, I’ll treasure every moment in your arms. Every kiss we share, I shall cradle amongst my soul until there’s no breath in my body.” Siren’s fingers wandered over his chest. She stood on her toes, kissing his lips. Lochlanaire’s bewildered eyes shut with her fiery touch.

Warring against the sorceress’ witchery, Lochlanaire sputtered, “Please, let this not be a dream. How, by God’s majesty, did you arrange this?”

“I’ve had an audience with King William, Lochlanaire. He bowed to
my
sovereignty. He’s pardoned you of your unjust imprisonment.” She nuzzled his throat, and felt his pulse dance. “You’re absolved of the death sentence and your assassin ties, as well as the treason you said you committed against him. You’re all mine, Lochlanaire.” One hand retrieved the parchment Lochlanaire gritted but dropped to the ground at her startling appearance. “This,” Siren rose skyward the candle-sealed parchment that King William’s crest branded, “This declaration grants your freedom, Lochlanaire. I’ve delivered you from evil.” She smiled.

Lochlanaire yanked Siren into his arms, kissing her savagely, and then remembered his child growing within her womb. Gently he lowered her, noting Siren’s swollen belly. His palm swathed the babe through her gown’s silk. “The babe?”

“Your child is anxious to arrive amidst our heathen realm.”

“Zore?”

Sullying the breeze the trees quivered, a chilling voice chimed, “Zore is alive, prepared to end your debauchery.” Swords clenched in hand, Zore parted the tree line and glared at his brother, who drew Siren to stand behind him. “I suspected that your lovely wife would arrange a scheme by which to liberate you of your malice, Lochlanaire.” Zore shook his head, his ominous gaze locking on Siren. “Pirates…they’re so bloody untrustworthy.” He insinuated that someone aboard one of the ships in her fleet mutinied, informing him of Siren’s plot for which to pardon Lochlanaire.

“And so?”

“I ought to be grateful to you, Siren, for the tremendous opportunity to duel my brother to the death. Catch.” Zore hurled to Lochlanaire the sword he held in his right hand and rose the weapon folded in his left, switching the lacy hilt to his right hand. He awaited Lochlanaire’s answer to his demand for a duel.

Lochlanaire forced Siren to back away. He and Zore sprung on each other, rage eclipsing them in a cutthroat war. Besieged, Siren feared she would lose Lochlanaire forever when she’d only just freed him. Desperately she rummaged her conscious for an answer in order to stall the contest.

Lochlanaire’s twirled sword caught Zore’s and both of their weapons flung away. They bashed each other using crimped fists, bloodying lips, knuckles and noses. Lochlanaire kicked the knife Zore unsheathed from his boot. The blade flipped the air and landed before Siren’s ruby-clad toe. Siren clenched the knife’s hilt and hurried to the glade where Zore and Lochlanaire clashed as starved lions ferocious for a last feast prior to death.

Siren riskily skirted between the infuriated brothers, for they wrenched apart. She brandished the knife on Zore, keeping him from reaching Lochlanaire. “Zore, what do you receive with this revenge?”