Part 44 (1/2)

But seeing as she hadn't a blade, a horse, an ally, or a plan, she wasn't quite sure how she would do it.

She rested her palm on her belly and, bending over the pages, started reading.

In the main hall, soldiers were lying down for the night, curled up against the walls and spread across the floor.

The hall was shadowy and warm. Pentony strode quietly across the room, nodding briefly to any sleepy eyes that he met. He froze when he spotted Rardove, bent over, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

He looked dead. Then, a small groaning sound came from the lump of him. He didn't look up.

Pentony went into motion again, swift and silent. There was much to arrange before the dawn. He slipped outside and inched open the portal gate in the bailey wall. He nudged a rock in front of it with the toe of his boot, scratched a thick-armed Celtic cross into the wooden door, then walked back inside.

He'd have to hope that something inside him was aligned with something inside the man who'd already risked as much for Senna as Pentony had for her mother.

Hours pa.s.sed. The strange, uninvited music drifted away. The night grew ebony and the moon set. Stars glistened and pale scents were carried on the rising wind.

Chapter 58.

The dark of night was dislodged by the pearly gray of predawn. The bells in the chapel were beholden to another hour of silence before they rang out Prime. Down in the inner bailey there was a flurry of activity and sound, muted by the thin mists of night: hooves and hushed, masculine calls of one man to another.

Senna heard the heavy thud of a boot outside the door. She shot to her feet, pages in hand. Slow listening. Heartbeats thudding. Cold sweat s.h.i.+vered down her spine. A mouse could not have scurried by without her hearing. But there was nothing. Nothing.

She swallowed thickly and turned to the brazier, building it into a wild flame, not at all like a brazier was intended to burn. But then, it hadn't been intended to burn military secrets.

She leaned close to blow. The flames flared higher. She reached for the pages.

Rusty hinges creaked behind her. ”So. You did it.” Rardove stepped into the room.

She spun and tripped over the hem of her skirt. The pages went flying, but she couldn't look away from Rardove. His hair was in disarray, tufted and dirty. His face was flushed from drink, but it was his eyes that terrified her. They were mad. They looked coated in pottage, mealy and thick, but when they caught sight of the dyed fabric on the counter-the s.h.i.+mmering b.u.t.terfly wing she'd made-they cleared.

He picked it up. Felt it all over, then set it down again and looked at her blankly. ”These are the pages?” He gestured to the sheaves of parchment scattered across the floor.

She didn't reply. He unslung his sword and extended it, twisting the tip gently back and forth, as if admiring it. In the flickering candlelight, it cast flas.h.i.+ng points of fire all across the room.

Her voice, despite all intention, dropped to a whisper. ”What are you doing?”

He looked up. Mad, staring eyes. ”Taking care of an inconvenience that has plagued me far too long.”

He was between her and the brazier. Between her and the door. He lifted the sword.

Senna took a running leap, flinging herself past him. He wrapped an arm around her waist as she flew by and slammed her to the ground. Senna fell, but as she landed, she threw her knee between his thighs.

He grunted and his eyes glazed over. The respite was sufficient, allowing her to roll away. She banged into the brazier. It toppled over. She scrambled backward and flung handfuls of the pages toward the stream of chunky orange coals. The pages scattered like small birds, an arc in the air. They fluttered to the ground. None made it into the coals.

”You b.i.t.c.h, b.i.t.c.h,” Rardove snarled. He staggered to his feet and lifted his blade. She was still on the floor, trying to kick sheaves of parchment into the flames. His shadow rose up.

”No!” she screamed and threw up her hands to block the blow of his sword.

”If you do it, you will die,” said a voice from the doorway.

Rardove's head snapped around. ”Pentony,” he rasped in amazement. ”Get out!”

”No.”

”Get out!”

”No.”

Senna scrambled away, hyperventilating and staring in amazement at Pentony, who stood in the doorway with a sword. Rusty, aye, but lifted for a blow.

Without removing his eyes from the baron, Pentony reached behind him and locked the door. Senna almost cried.

A second later, from outside the door, loud shouts exploded, and fists pounded against the wood. ”Lord Rardove!” a soldier shouted. ”Are you a'right?”

No one even looked at the door. Sweat dripped down between Senna's b.r.e.a.s.t.s and made her palms slippery against the floor as she tried to scuttle backward another inch.

”Get out of here, Pentony,” Rardove said, sounding tired, and turned to Senna. The appearance of Pentony's sword, lifted to hover, edgewise, just at the vein on his neck, stopped him short.

A bubble of foamy mucous gathered in the corner of the baron's mouth. The spittle from his lips flicked into the air and exploded in invisible bursts. ”I will kill you,” he wheezed in fury.

”I know.”

Rardove began choking on his words. They squeezed out in meaningless sounds of rage. His face burned a fiery red, his fingers twitched on his sword, but he dared not move.

”I gave you everything, everything, Pentony,” he spat. Senna could feel his eyes following her as she scrambled to her feet and stood behind the gaunt seneschal. ”Money, a free hand with the finances, direction over all my lands-” Pentony,” he spat. Senna could feel his eyes following her as she scrambled to her feet and stood behind the gaunt seneschal. ”Money, a free hand with the finances, direction over all my lands-”

”I found I had lost my soul,” Pentony said in a quiet, dignified way.

Rardove's face contorted. ”You lost that some thirty years ago, when you trussed up the skirts of that nun and defiled her-”

”She was not yet a nun,” he whispered hoa.r.s.ely.

”You escaped punishment, of course, due to your royal connections, but I heard hers was severe indeed. More like torture, with the stones and the-”

Pentony's face lost all semblance of being a blooded thing. ”She was my wife.”

”Nay, priest. priest. She was to She was to become become your wife, if only you could have waited. Waited for her to leave the nunnery, for you to renounce your vows. But you could not, and I was told the baby's screams could be heard at all five Cinque Ports, if the peasants can be believed.” your wife, if only you could have waited. Waited for her to leave the nunnery, for you to renounce your vows. But you could not, and I was told the baby's screams could be heard at all five Cinque Ports, if the peasants can be believed.”

Pentony's blade twitched against Rardove's throat. ”She was my wife in mine heart, and I have carried her there all these years.”

Rardove barked in laughter. ”She must have been a rare beauty, then, for the only thing I have seen you hold tight to in all the years I've known you is money, steward.”