Seacliff (50 page)

Two of the mercenaries broke into a run, and stopped as if hitting an invisible wall when Griffin showed them the gleam of his dagger.

“Hasty,” he scolded. “Very hasty. You’re not thinking, gentlemen, not thinking at all. Of course, I could be wrong, couldn’t I? You could be feeling a profound loyalty to Mr. Flint, and in that case you’ll want to fight for him—to the death, mind—simply because you love him. If that’s the case, then good hunting.”

He jumped out and slammed the door, throwing the bolt down and stepping aside while his men propped benches against it, using large stones to brace its base. Then he picked three men to stay behind, to watch the window and the door—and to release those inside should the sparks that now filled the air make a torch of the building.

A muttered word of encouragement, and he turned on his heels and ran, heedless of the mercenaries’ pleading shouts.

“S
tory!” Caitlin exclaimed, seething with disgust and impatience. But Nate spread his arms wide to indicate that he had no other choice, that what she wanted to know would not be forthcoming unless she heard him out. She shifted her gaze to the point of her blade and saw in it the distorted reflection of her face. She concentrated on it for several long moments while she wrestled with her temper. When it was done—she had no idea where she’d found the strength to do it—she looked up again and nodded.

Birwyn combed his fingers through his hair and was about to begin his tale when Danny uttered a terrified, startled oath. Caitlin snapped her gaze to the window and gasped when she saw a hideously deformed visage staring in at her. It was but the space of a few seconds before she recognized Griffin’s man, Peter, his face contorted by the raindrops clinging to the panes. Instantly taking advantage of the interruption, Birwyn threw himself off the table, at once shoving Caitlin backward and flinging out his arm to catch Danny in a vicious blow to the chest. Danny grunted, staggered, as Birwyn snatched his dagger away and sprinted for the door. When Jonson moved to pursue him, Mary rammed her knee between his legs and brought him crashing to the floor.

Caitlin recovered just as the tower door slammed, shouting an instruction before she took up the chase.

Her men followed as she sprinted down the short hall into the main house, in time to see Birwyn reach the end of the corridor and disappear to the right. Before she was halfway there, she heard the front door thunder to a close. She slowed, and by the time she’d reached the center hall, she was walking, her men nervously trailing behind her.

“Flint,” she ordered then. “We’ll take care of Birwyn later. I want this house searched. Every room. Every closet. I want to know where James Flint is!”

The men scattered, except for the two she had instructed to drag chairs from the dining room as braces against the north tower door, in case mercenaries tried to come through those apartments. Then she raced up the steps to the gallery and began her own search. Room by room. Kicking open doors and leaping over the threshold with her dagger held in front of her. She could hear footsteps below her, shouts, directions, but no cries of discovery.

She saved her own room for last, and was glad she had.

The reception room was a shambles, furniture tipped over and tapestries yanked down from the walls. The vanity, too, had been savaged. But the bedchamber stopped her and brought an anguished moan to her lips.

All the windows had been broken, the draperies shredded and strewn on the floor. The wardrobe was pitted, splintered and tipped over, its back having snapped in half. Mirrors were shattered, chairs gouged and turned to matchwood, and her bed—from canopy to mattress—looked as if an enraged, monstrous lion had clawed it to shreds until nothing was left but the frame, and the posts broken in two. In the center of this chaos lay the grappling hook and rope she’d used for her escape, and it took her no time at all to conclude that Flint, at some time returning here to seek a clue to her whereabouts, had found the device and in an eruption of temper used it to wreak the destruction she now stumbled through.

Her arms hung limply at her sides as she walked to the fireplace. Her knees gave way and she dropped to the hearth when she saw the bust of her father lying in pieces against the firewall. The dagger dropped from her hand. One by one she pulled the shards of stone from the ashes and laid them in a mound at her knees. She wept, not with sorrow but with impotent rage, a furious red flush crossing her cheeks until, with a strangled scream, she leaped to her feet and raced for the stairs.

And stopped, suddenly, to listen.

There was fighting downstairs. She could hear the clash of swords, the crack of blows landing on bone, the crackle of musket-fire, and the crashing of chairs against the paneling and stone. Warily, she trotted to the gallery and looked down, her eyes large and her mouth agape.

The double front doors were flung open, one of them hanging precariously from a single hinge. Outside she could see wavering images struggling beneath torches held high, and though it lasted but a moment, she was positive she saw Orin Daniels rush by with a club in his hand, his shirt torn from the shoulder.

In the hall, too, men were fighting, though the conflict was contained and considerably more vicious. It was easy to tell the outlaws by their green vestments, and the mercenaries by their catchall uniforms and bedraggled civilian clothing. And as she watched, stunned into immobility, Griffin sprang from the side corridor at the foot of the staircase, laughing wildly, his hair loose and his left hand brandishing a staff six feet long.

He waded into the battle almost casually, thumping skulls, grabbing the back of a shirt and flinging a man aside as if he were weightless. He dropped the staff at one point when a band of Flint’s men rushed in from the outside. Picking up the nearest mercenary by his collar and belt Griffin tossed him into the charging men, scattering and rendering them helpless.

Caitlin’s blood raced, and she called out to him without thinking.

He turned, and the smile that flashed on his lips made her forget for a moment the dismay she’d felt in her rooms.

Then she cried out a warning, and Griffin spun around in a crouch just as a club whistled over his head. The man froze in astonishment, just long enough for Griffin to land a blow in his stomach, another to his jaw, and turn to deliver the same combination to a man charging him with an outstretched dagger.

Davy Daniels stood framed in the doorway, his left arm bleeding. He took one enemy from behind with his staff, then stopped another who was attempting to flee into the dining room.

Caitlin leaned over the gallery railing and looked toward the back and saw more of the same. It was evident, however, that the few mercenaries who had chosen to hold Seacliff for Flint were losing, and losing badly. Within the space of a few minutes she saw only villagers run out of the corridors, the rooms, through the front doors.

And then she saw Gwen. And Nate Birwyn.

They came out of the corridor at the foot of the staircase, Gwen trembling violently, her head held back by Birwyn’s hand clamped under her chin, her back arched to strain away from the dagger he held snugly against her spine. When Griffin saw them, he instinctively raised his staff, but Birwyn shook his head, a great evil smile creasing his lips. One by one the others stopped their fighting, and in less than a minute there were only the sounds of the injured groaning, and a few scattered shouts from the men still fighting on the front lawn.

“Ye’ll let me and the gel pass,” Birwyn said as if he were discussing the weather.

Davy and Orin stood in the doorway, their friends ranged on either side, unmoving.

Griffin was alone in the center of the hall, unconscious men lying in clumps all around him. He shook his head, slowly, and Gwen whimpered.

“All right, then,” Birwyn said unconcernedly. “There are other ways, man.”

He moved to the stairs and begin backing up them, pulling Gwen with him. Griffin dropped his staff and reached into his belt to pull out a pistol. It was cocked, but though he moved along the hall, following the two up the steps with the banister between them, Caitlin could see from the frustration in his eyes that he could not get a clear shot at Birwyn without striking Gwen as well. Caitlin moved.

Without a definite idea of what she could do, she inched along the railing to the top step.

Griffin’s gaze flicked to her and away. “Birwyn!” he said loudly. “Birwyn, this is madness.”

Birwyn only tightened his grip on Gwen’s jaw and laughed softly at her cry. “We’ll see, Welshman. We’ll see. I been in worse straits afore.”

“Have you, now?”

Caitlin took one step down, then another. Her left hand was on the banister, her right hand extended for balance… and to signal the men to be silent.

“Indeed, Welshman. Indeed.”

When Birwyn started to turn around to see how far he had to go, Griffin called his name again, sharply, and Caitlin held her breath.

“Flint,” Griff said. “Where the hell is Flint?”

“I do believe that little fire out there gave him pause, Welshman. I do believe it did. To tell the truth, I ain’t seen him in quite a while.”

“He’s a coward,” Griffin sneered, still moving along the hall.

“Who’s to say?” Birwyn told him. “He lives to fight another day, don’t he?”

Suddenly, Griffin shouted again, this time flinging the pistol into the air. Birwyn froze and half turned. Caitlin jumped down a step and reached over the banister, caught the pistol, and dropped to a crouch, her finger fumbling for the trigger. The delay was disastrous. Birwyn’s arm stabbed forward and Gwen screamed, threw up her hands and slumped to the steps, a dark red stain spreading rapidly across her waist. Birwyn ignored her. Instead, he took a step up, grinning at Caitlin.

“M’lady,” he said, “that’s a dangerous thing ye have there.” Caitlin gritted her teeth. “I’ll use it, believe me.”

“But I’m without arms now,” he said, opening his hands to show her the knife was gone. “You wouldn’t shoot a man without arms, would you?”

She blocked out his voice as best she could, but she did not retreat. Instead, she rose slowly and stretched out her arms, gripping the pistol tightly and praying none of the powder had fallen from the pan in its flight.

Birwyn took another step, grinning.

“Would ye like t’see somethin’, m’lady?” he asked innocently.

She blinked. He was only eight steps down. One more and he would be close enough to lunge.

Then, in a movement too swift for her to follow, he snatched off his patch and showed her the black hole where his eye had once been. At the same time he leaned into a running stance, hoping the sight would immobilize her just enough.

Caitlin gasped. Birwyn lunged.

And she pulled the trigger to send the ball through his heart.

37

C
aitlin stood wearily on the front lawn, her arms and legs leaden, attempting to fill her lungs with fresh air. The sky over the eastern hills was graying, the ridges soft and the shadows creeping down the slopes toward the farms. All about her there was subdued but joyful activity. Carts were being drawn up to haul off the dead; the surviving mercenaries had been gathered into a herd and, at her instructions, were being driven from the valley. She wanted no part of them now. All she wanted was to get them out of her home, and out of her country. What they did once they reached England was their affair, not hers. But her concluding message to them had been clear: she would spread the word through every shire in Wales, and if any one of them showed his face across the border again he would be summarily killed. And from the look in her eyes they knew it was no idle threat.

Gwen was in Orin’s cottage. The wound she had received was not deep, only bloody. Caitlin had bound it herself and had given the woman a tonic to allow her surcease from pain and some escape in slumber. Afterward, she learned of Bradford’s death and mourned his loss.

Behind her, in the house, she could hear parties of men who were led by Mrs. Courder and her sister as they cleaned up. They were laughing, not a few of them singing, but in spite of it all, Caitlin felt the victory was hollow.

Two hours of intensive, frantic searching had not uncovered the hiding place of James Flint.

She had sighed, looked down at herself and grinned sardonically. Seacliff was hers at last, and here she stood, still in her father’s clothes—bloodied, soaked through with rain, and ill-fitting—a wonderful sight she was sure the villagers would spin into tales for their grandchildren to hear in years to come. The mistress of Seacliff, garbed in man’s clothes, laying siege to her own manor.

Griffin’s hand lay against the small of her back, and she pressed her cheek to his shoulder.

“Fair night’s work,” he said.

“But all that dying,” she said despairingly, “all that blood, and it’s still not over.”

“He’s long gone, Cat,” he assured her quietly. “He’s out of the valley forever.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

“You must,” he insisted, turning to face her. “Cat, you’ve done more than any hundred men could have done. You’ve given these people back their lives, and their laughter.” He cocked his head as if listening. “They’ll face hell for you now. Even poor Terry.”

She smiled wanly, and accepted his kiss gratefully. But when it was done she asked him for a moment to be alone with her father. He nodded his understanding, kissed her again, and took hold of her shoulders before she left him.

“Cat,” he said, “I don’t believe I’ve mentioned this to you before, but you do have my heart, you know. I do love you, Caitlin Evans. I’m mad, but I love you.”

Then he was gone, into the house, for a tankard of beer with the men. She watched his broad back until it was swallowed by darkness, then turned and made her way around the house to the pine at the corner of the wall. The skies were clear, the first light reaching nearly to the horizon. She put her hand on the rough tree bole and closed her eyes briefly. A breeze wafted through her hair and ruffled her shirtfront. A gull called. Cattle began lowing in the pastures.