Seacliff (41 page)

“It will be immensely warm in there,” he said, tugging fitfully at his blown lace cuffs. “Be a good man and see to it those two old cows haven’t mined the feast, will you?”

Birwyn saluted him. “Whatever you say, m’lord.”

Flint laughed and clapped his shoulder. “Not yet, Nate. Not quite yet. But you can be sure I’m working on it with all due haste.”

Birwyn vanished on his errand, and Flint turned, hearing voices in the front room. Already it starts, he thought, and looked up to the ceiling, as if he could see through the massive beams and stone to Caitlin’s rooms above. A momentary frown darkened his expression, then passed. And when it did, he broke into a great smile and flung open the corridor doors, his hand extended to greet the vicar while his tongue formed a compliment for the Mistresses Shamac and Broary.

Caitlin heard the clock chime and knew she could no longer remain safely in her room. She hurried to the desk, and from a pigeonhole pulled an emerald-colored sheath; within was a slim dagger she’d spent part of the morning sharpening on a whetstone she’d taken from the kitchen. She laid it on the chest, the scabbard beside it.

Then she walked over to the sculpture on the mantel and cupped her hands around her father’s face. A tear glistened in the comer of her eye, and she banished it with a brush of her finger.

“Good-bye, Father,” she whispered. “There won’t be time later, God willing. Please don’t worry. I’ll be back, one way or another.”

She emitted a deep, prolonged sigh for things past and gone, gathered her skirts in one hand, and strode through the apartment to the gallery in the blink of an eye. The last time she had dressed this way was on the day a candle tree had been lit in the hall below to celebrate her birthday. Now there was only Bradford, waiting patiently by the door. He saw her as she made her way regally down the staircase, and to her surprise, he rushed over to offer his hand as she reached the bottom step.

“Why… thank you, Bradford,” she said.

“You’re welcome, m’lady,” he said, and escorted her to the front room.

It took her less than a minute to realize that virtually everyone in the valley had come. It was difficult to maintain her composure in the face of the scene’s similarity to her last birthday. But she managed graciously, accepting murmured congratulations with a brief nod and stilted smile. Then Flint stepped into the middle of the room and reached for her hands.

“My dear,” he said quietly, before turning to the others. “I must say, friends, this is undoubtedly the most beautiful bride in the kingdom.”

A spattering of applause, then a general movement toward a long table set up before the hearth where Mary, ludicrously bedecked in a white and brown dress, flowers pinned in her hair, ladled out generous portions of a wine punch which, Caitlin was informed, had been mixed by Orin Daniels.

When all the glasses were filled, Reverend Lynne stepped over to Flint’s side and turned to face his congregation.

“My dear, dear friends,” he said in English, “I am moved to propose a toast to this couple.”

“Here, here,” said a voice Caitlin recognized as Davy’s.

The vicar beamed. “To the Widow Morgan, and to James Patrick Flint. May their sojourn on this earth, and at Seacliff, be strewn with life’s treasures and devoid of life’s dangers. May they, by God’s grace, fill this mansion and our lives with cheer, joy, and children. And may none of us ever forget whose children we really are. To the bride and groom!”

Everyone cried, “To the bride and groom,” and quaffed their cups.

The vicar drank quickly, and turned to offer his glass again to Mary. The others were not so quick to drink or to seek a second round, but Flint could not help draining his glass in a single gulp.

“Gads!” he said when he could catch his breath again. “My God, Master Daniels, you’ve outdone yourself.”

Orin, hovering just behind the first rank of guests, tugged at his forelock in embarrassment. Caitlin, however, set her own glass aside; she knew Orin had probably loaded the punch with every kind of liquor he could think of; and even if it was not as potent as Flint suggested, she probably would have lost it all in an explosion of laughter on spotting Orin’s face, and the comically sour look on it.

“It’s a shame we don’t have music,” she said to Flint when, his glass refilled, he took her elbow and led her to the windows.

“Not enough time,” he said. “But there will be music in your heart before this day is done.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek, and she was just barely able to conceal her distaste.

She was saved, too, from further conversation when the villagers began crowding around her, making small talk in Welsh and apologizing to Flint in English for using their language. Soon enough he scowled and headed back for another drink. And, while no one said anything directly to her, Caitlin was positive Randall had spread a few discreet words here and there, for her Welsh guests were polite, cheerful, and behaving as if they saw nothing untoward about her upcoming marriage.

And somewhere in the midst of it all, she heard the deep-throated clamor of thunder rolling down from the hills.

Flint laughed loudly.

A pattering at the panes behind her told Caitlin the rain had finally come.

Flint lifted his glass high overhead and tossed it into the fireplace. Within seconds most of the men did likewise, and the shattering crystal sounded like a volley of musket-fire.

Then, before she was ready, the vicar was standing before her. “M’lady,” he said unctuously, “I believe Mr. Flint is ready.”

A space had been cleared in front of the hearth, the table dragged away, and a white cloth placed over the floor. She allowed herself to be taken forward by the hand, her eyes partly closed and a scream locked behind her tightly clamped lips. The vicar instantly stepped onto a low platform, reached inside his black coat, and extracted a Bible.

He smiled, and with a nod to Caitlin and Flint, indicated they should move closer together. When they had, the vicar opened the holy book, leafed through it briefly, and placed a finger on a crisp page. Flint cleared his throat, while Caitlin struggled not to faint.

Lynne looked out over the assembly and swallowed. Then his smile broadened as he began, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered—”

“You sod!”

A gasp rose from the crowd, and an oath from Flint as he whirled around, glaring.

“You damned drunken sod, how
dare
you touch her in the face of God!”

It was Martin Randall, shoving Quinn Broary behind him, away from Orin Daniels.

“She’s mine, you damned ass!” Daniels bellowed. “Drunk,” Randall repeated. “Drunk, and a blasphemer!”

“
Quiet!
” Flint roared, but the command came too late. Orin had formed a fist at Randall’s insult, and had already slammed it into Randall’s chest. The goldsmith staggered back into Broary, knocking her to the floor. A woman screamed, followed by another, and another, and Reverend Lynne waved his arms wildly in a feeble effort to restore order, his face blanched from the effort.

Randall recovered quickly and flung himself at Daniels, his teeth snapping at the farrier’s ear as they toppled to the floor at the crowd’s feet. Flint, screaming imprecations, bullied his way through the crowd, but before he could reach the brawlers Davy had jumped on Randall’s back and was pummeling his head. A hand took his shoulder and dragged him off. He swung wildly, and was instantly caught in a wrestling match that forced the crowd back against the walls where they watched in horror.

“Damn you!” Flint was bellowing. He reached for Randall’s hair and was knocked off balance when Quinn Broary found herself in a tussle with Mistress Shamac.

“Madness,” he screamed. “Nate! Nate! Get in here and stop this at once!”

Someone lifted the punch bowl and flung it against the wall by the side door just as Birwyn plunged into the turmoil. He had to crouch to get through the mass of onlookers, his brace of pistols suddenly large in his hands. He had no chance to use them, however. From out of nowhere, Gwen tripped and fell on top of him, her skirts covering his head while she shrieked and flailed her arms.

“M’lady,” the vicar implored. “Please do something, m’lady.”

Caitlin turned around and glared at the trembling cleric. “Go to hell,” she said. She then reached out and shoved him off the platform and into the fireplace. Then she pushed her way through the milling, shouting, brawling crowd. She could not see Flint, but she knew there was little time left before his men would come to his aid and restore a semblance of order. She gasped when an elbow caught her in the ribs, gasped again in surprise when an unseen hand pressed into the small of her back and shoved her toward the hall.

Buffeted and propelled, then, she wove her way across the room, broke free like a cork from a bottle, and headed for the staircase. There was no one around, but she could hear footsteps in the corridor leading to the north tower. The soldiers were coming. She hesitated, then fled upward, her mouth gasping for air, her hands pulling her skirts high above her ankles— to expose a pair of boots she had washed with white paint so they would pass, at a glance, for slippers when her feet were exposed.

A shout, and Flint sprawled into the hall.

She took no time to do more than glance at him before redoubling her speed, only vaguely hearing more shouts from the front room, then the onrush of racing feet and breaking glass.

“Caitlin!”

Three-quarters of the way there she saw Bradford waiting at the head of the staircase. She did not stop to think. She moved on, hearing Flint taking the steps two at a time behind her, hearing his ragged breathing and the oaths he hurled along the way.

“Bradford, your life if you don’t stop her!” he commanded.

She reached the top only two steps ahead of Flint, almost falling when Bradford stepped nimbly aside, while making it appear as if she’d shoved him off-balance. She ran, heard an anguished shout, and turned just as Bradford toppled off the step and into Flint’s path. The sound of the two of them plummeting down the stairs brought a cry to her lips and almost stopped her in her purpose. But deciding she must go on, she kicked open her door at a dead run, ran into the bedchamber, and snatched up the dagger she’d left on the chest. There was no time to fuss with laces and stays; she slashed at the front of her gown until it lay in tatters at her feet. Then she rolled down the sleeves and trouser legs of her father’s clothes, tucked the trousers into the boots, and grabbed a hooded cloak and floppy hat from the wardrobe. The hat fit perfectly over her trussed-up hair, and the cloak concealed her sex instantly.

There was no time to think.

Only a brief moment to pray that Orin had remembered. Then she threw back the balcony doors and stepped into the teeth of the storm.

Lightning flared blue-white over the bay, cracking in jagged lines over the trees in the grove that hid the barracks. She stumbled forward and saw with a shout of delight the four-pronged grappling hook clutching a gap in the wall. She looked out, looked down, wiped the lashing cold rain from her face and climbed through the gap. Grabbing the attached rope, she lowered herself from the balcony. The wind slammed her against the stone; the rope, slick with rain, burned her palms as she descended more rapidly than she wanted. Her elbows bled, her knees bled, and a gash opened on her cheek when the wind, spinning her like a top, smashed her against the tower.

It seemed like ages, eons, later that her hands gave way and she fell, landing in the muddy grass with such force that she knocked the wind from her lungs.

No, she thought as she struggled to her feet, gasping. No, my dear God, please no!

Hands grabbed her arms and she screamed, the scream instantly was lost in the fury of the storm. She lashed out, was held tighter and pulled to the tower’s base where a lantern was resting, protected from the wind by its storm panes. It was lifted, and she saw the roan saddled and ready in the circle of its light.

Then she saw Gwen, weeping.

There was no time for words. They embraced quickly, and she mounted the roan, riding astride like a man hell-bent for the trail Martin Randall had described to her. She looked back only once, and saw all the windows in Seacliff ablaze with angry light. Gwen and the stranger who’d helped Caitlin into the saddle had long fled, their tiny lantern against Seacliff’s great walls, gone from view. Then she was riding on, across the fields, across the valley, the storm thundering at her heels and driving all thought from her mind. She didn’t even have time to realize she’d at last escaped.

PART FOUR

Conqueror

31

T
he shadow shaped itself into a creature straight out of Old Les’s most hideous night tale: tall, lean, with blue-black claws that glowed evilly in the darkness as they reached for Caitlin’s throat. Its face was that of a beast she couldn’t name but whose rapacious countenance sneered the seven deadly sins, particularly lust. It was marked by greed and an insane satisfaction at having cornered its prey at last. Its red-glowing eyes pinned her to the ground as surely as if they were flaming lances; the deep, dead-skin scar that pulled at the edge of its fanged and grinning lips rippled obscenely; and to its massive hairy chest was strapped a thick black whip sheathed in the skin of hell’s most venomous serpent. She scrambled backward on her haunches, her mouth open in a silent, agonizing scream that echoed helplessly through her mind. She had no weapons, and when she looked down for an instant she realized the creature had somehow managed to shred all her clothing while she’d been sleeping. She was naked. Defenseless. And in seconds backed up against a stone wall. In response, she drew her knees to her chest, whimpered, and finally flung out a futile hand in an effort to stay the beast’s relentless advance. But the creature only laughed and snapped its fangs at her hand. She shrieked, reaching desperately around her in the dark until her fingers closed over a triangular stone. She threatened the thing with it, but the creature laughed again, and with little warning, lunged toward her. Caitlin jumped back, forgetting the wall, and cracking her skull against it, the impact of which ignited pin wheels of brilliant red fire behind her eyes. She cried out… cried out again and flailed her arms wildly until she realized she was alone. Still alone in the cave.