Seacliff (46 page)

The idea disturbed her. It had her looking over her shoulder at every shadow that flickered beneath a bough, or behind a bush. It made her breathing shallow, and had her walking through the grass as if on eggshells filled with knives.

A hand touched her shoulder. She jumped back and gasped. It was Griffin, smiling.

“It’s time, Cat,” he said.

She blinked stupidly, then realized she had been walking the last hour through almost total darkness. My Lord, she thought, if this is the way I’m going to be, we’re lost.

“Arc you afraid?” she asked, just to hear the sound of her voice over the night sounds of the forest.

He nodded. “Of course I am. A man would be a fool not to feel fear when he’s going into something like this. Knowing this is the difference between a man and a coward.”

“Have … have you ever been a coward, Griff?”

A hesitation, and he looked toward the bay and its brilliant silver carpet sparkling beneath the moon. “Only once.” He paused. “When Sir Oliver took you that first time to England, I left Falconrest. I went to Cardiff, to London, almost crossed the Channel to Calais. I wanted no part of Morgan, of Seacliff, even of my own land. I decided I was going to be a world traveler. I would see Cathay and India, Florence and Milan, and return someday dressed in gold and silk and dripping with silver. I even thought of returning to the army, but we didn’t get along the first time, as I recall, and I saw no reason to believe this time would be any different.”

“Griff—”

He placed a hand on the side of her neck and drew her to him. Kissed her and then tenderly pushed her away. “We’ll not have any time together from now on, you understand.”

It was a statement.

She nodded, swallowing hard against a lump that had grown large in her throat.

“But you must promise me you’ll have a care. This will do none of us any good if you end up like your father. Or, God help us, like your husband.”

She tried to speak, and had to clear her throat so she wouldn’t sound as if she were weeping. “I will. But mind you this, Griffin Radnor: I do not intend to find a comer to hide in.”

“If you do, I’ll drag you out.”

They kissed again, this time holding desperately to each other until a warning hiss from the shadows broke them apart.

“Are you comin’ or no?” Wyndym asked them.

“We’re coming,” Caitlin said before Griffin could speak. “If I stand here much longer, I’ll turn into a tree.”

34

A
t a signal from Griffin they broke from the protection of the trees and fanned out stealthily down a slope along the village’s southern flank. Eight men broke into a dead run for the beach while the others moved less hurriedly but no less cautiously. Shadows against the moon-touched grass, they increased their speed as the danger from alerted dogs grew; they raced now on their toes, trying not to make a sound, their clubs in their hands at the ready. They had agreed beforehand that, should there be a fight, no man was to lash out with a killing blow; thus, knives, daggers, and the one short sword they possessed were kept sheathed.

They neared the cottages, smoke curling lazily from several chimneys despite the warmth of the night. From behind pitted and patched glass the dim glow of cooking fires could be seen, flickering as figures passed in front of them. A song drifted from an open doorway, a mother crooning to her child. From another house came the welcome sound of a loud, boisterous argument punctuated by muffled blows and ribald laughter.

The first eight, led by Wyndym, negotiated the stony beach in almost perfect silence. Wyndym then made his way along the row of boats and jabbed at those to be dragged into the surf. The waves here were low, lapping rather than breaking against pilings and worn pebbles. Within moments three boats rather than two had been chosen, and at a grunted command from Wyndym the men half-lifted, half-shoved the vessels into the water.

Caitlin heard the scraping as she ran behind Griff, and she winced. Surely they were loud enough to wake the dead. Yet there was no stirring within the cottages, and before she knew it she was wading in the cold water, her arms outstretched for balance. A hand grabbed her wrist. Another took her waist and someone lifted her into the first boat, a long vessel with a single mast and the sail folded at its base. It smelled of brine and fish, but Caitlin was more concerned with the thumping of boots on the planks, with the creak of oarlocks as men scurried about in the darkness trying to find places for themselves without pitching over the side.

A dog barked furiously, and a man bawled at it to be silent if it wanted to live to see the dawn.

The waves grew to breakers as the oars dipped into the water, splashing over the wedge-shaped bow and drenching everyone within. Caitlin huddled on the stem thwart, drawing her legs as close as she could to keep out of the way. Except for the pinpricks of lights from the fishing village, the land rose blackly all around them; the moon had retreated behind a bank of thick, silver-edged clouds.

A curse, muffled and harsh, broke the silence. Someone in her own boat asked if anyone knew how to hoist the bloody sail, and swore a disgusted oath when the response was negative.

Gripping the gunwales as hard as she could, Caitlin braced herself against the violent pitch and yaw, closing her eyes at one point when she was sure the craft would capsize under the blow of a white-foamed wave. Then she was lifted, held up for an eternity, as the boat plunged into the trough. A nervous laugh from her right—Willy Jonson—she was perversely pleased to note, indicated someone was just as frightened as she.

Then, as if a curtain had been drawn back, they were out of the inlet and into the open sea. The swells cradled them darkly, but once they had established a rhythm at the oars, the nauseating roll of the boat settled into a rocking motion that was almost soothing. They released their long-held breath and attempted a few jokes. The laughter was forced but grateful. On their left, as the boats moved in single file southward, the cliffs loomed like an unbroken black wall, topped by a few shrubs and a handful of straggly trees.

The sea breeze was chilling, and Caitlin wished she’d not made such a show of leaving the camp. She could have at least brought her cloak along.

The moon broke clear again, briefly, and she could see someone in the boat ahead signaling to them. A circular motion, repeated over and over until Jonson, who had somehow managed to assume temporary command, whispered to the oarsmen to bring their craft alongside the other boats. It took several attempts before the men were able to maneuver all three vessels together, gunwale to gunwale, but when it was accomplished, Caitlin crawled forward and spoke softly.

“The tide will be in when we get there,” she said, listening as the word was passed to those who couldn’t hear. “Griffin will bring his in just north of the Norse wall, below the barracks. There’s a path. Slippery from the tide, but it will have to serve. Terry will go south of the wall to another. That one is set rather deeply in and should be no trouble. Those men will go directly to the village and find Randall and anyone else you can think of whom you can trust.”

“And what about you, lady?” Wyndym sneered out of the darkness. “What will ye be doin’ all this time?”

“I’ll go on to Seacliff,” she said.

“M’lady,” Jonson asked behind her left shoulder, “there are so many men…”

“But they have only a handful of leaders,” she said, suddenly tired of explaining, but knowing how much these farmers and craftsmen needed the assurance yet another time. “Remember, the soldiers are doing this for pay, not out of loyalty and not for glory. Take away the source of their livelihood and they’ll not give us very much trouble.”

“So say you,” Wyndym muttered.

“I
do
say,” she retorted.

“Ye ken a great bit about them, lady.”

“I lived with them a great bit, mister.”

Wyndym continued his grumbling, but he was hushed angrily by several of his men, and further conversation was broken off when a series of large swells finally floated the boats apart. Caitlin moved slowly back to her place, smiling at the eight men with her though she knew they probably could not see her face clearly. Griffin had said nothing during the entire exchange, and she missed the reassuring sound of his deep voice, the touch—just one touch—of his hand on her cheek. It had been his idea to come to Seacliff through the bivouac of barracks, not hers. He had claimed that a few bolts thrown and a fire or two lit would create confusion enough to sufficiently isolate those soldiers who were not already scattered throughout the valley. She’d balked at first, but his insistence was too great, and she had at last given in.

Now, despite Jonson’s pleasant murmuring and the few quiet attempts at humor drifting back to her from the others, she felt depressingly alone.

A wave rocked the boat precariously, and she bit down hard on her lower lip.

Faint echoes of the oars returned to her from the face of the cliffs, and she could not help imagining a horde of English troops or several dozen of Flint’s men gauging the three boats’ painful progress, sniggering at such a pitiful armada while they loaded their muskets and sharpened their swords. Ludicrous, she thought in a moment of sudden self-doubt; the entire venture was ludicrous. Here was a woman no more used to fighting than Griffin was to running, a woman coddled and cradled most of her life, who was now embarked on a campaign that could almost be considered military.

A grin came to her lips unbidden. Though she knew her father would be proud of her for what she was doing, he would also probably fall into a chair laughing. Not at her, but at the thought of her carrying a standard.

“M’lady?” It was Willy, his bald scalp giving him a curiously innocent look. “M’lady, the lads and I, we was talkin’, and we wants ye t’know we be right sorry for all them bad words that was said against you.”

She took his callused hand and squeezed it, smiled, and tossed her head to keep her hair from blinding her. It had not been braided since her night alone with Griffin, and without a hat, it had grown tangled and dirty, yet still capable of catching the shimmering lances of moonlight that escaped wherever breaks in the clouds formed.

“It’s all right,” she said quietly. “When all is said and done, Willy, I probably deserved them.”

He didn’t know how to respond, so he ducked his head and crawled away to take his turn at one of the four oars. The shifting of the men caused the skiff to heel dangerously, and it shipped water from one side. Automatically, Caitlin pulled up her legs, then realized with a self-conscious grin that she couldn’t get much wetter than she already was. It seemed to be her lot these days to travel through her country drenched to the skin, as if something were reminding her that her return to the easy life was not going to transpire astride a mythic stallion.

They rowed throughout most of the night, just outside the breakers that crashed against the cliffs. When, however, the boulders at the top were outlined in a dim dawn and the stars began fading on the western horizon, they started searching for a place to pull in for a rest. Backs were aching, arms throbbing, and the crust of sea salt on their faces made them feel as if skin was cracking with every smile and grimace.

A cove was discovered just before full light, hidden from view by massive boulders jutting out from the cliff wall, and bounded by a natural jetty that angled into the bay to form a broad pool of quiet amid the turmoil of the bay. With fair skill they maneuvered around the outer rocks into the peaceful water, and saw there was a narrow sand beach hard against the base. Without speaking they made for it, landed, and sprawled out on either dry sand or rock as they waited for the sun to warm and dry them.

Caitlin watched as Griffin walked toward her, and noticed that his face was lined with weariness. They did not speak. Arm in arm they moved among the men and spoke to them, reviewing the plan and bolstering their spirits. Only Wyndym would not converse; when he saw them approaching he rolled away onto his side and closed his eyes. Caitlin looked at Griffin, who only shrugged and stepped carefully around the man’s feet. A few minutes later they were sitting on a natural table at the land end of the jetty.

“I should say something to him,” she said, nodding toward the sleeping Wyndym.

“Nothing you can say, Cat, will change his mind. Not only are you a woman, but you’ve gone English as well, or so he believes. He came only because he wanted to go home. I put Jack Cullough in the same boat to keep an eye on Terry. He’ll do us no harm.”

Caitlin wasn’t sure, but when she looked at Griff’s profile against the steadily brightening blue of the sky, at the hair that swept in waves to his shoulders, and at the wry smile that had returned to his lips, she thought, He’s enjoying this. The man’s actually enjoying this!

An inexplicable sadness came over her for an instant; she suddenly understood Griffin far more thoroughly than she had before. It wasn’t the battle he was looking forward to—though that was part of it, being as he was a brawler disguised as a man of means and land—it was the excitement that came with it. The taunting of death, of pain; the sheer physical and mental exhilaration of it all. She had experienced that emotion only once before, on the morning of her escape, and it hadn’t been until now that she realized how addictive it could be. To spend one’s life standing up to danger, beckoning it, laughing in its face, and then… and then
besting it!

Marvelous … and sad.

Sad, because she wondered then if he would ever really be happy living among the gentry, running a valley and a vast landed estate the way her father had done. She laid her cheek against his arm and closed her eyes, listening to the sound of his breathing; it matched the rhythm of the waves breaking against the jetty’s pointed finger and along its slick, rocky sides.

He must have sensed her melancholy, for he put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her once, tightly, before shifting slightly so her head would be on his shoulder.

“Sleep,” he whispered. “Unless we run into the Royal Navy, we’ll be at Seacliff before midnight.”