Sorceress by Lisa Jackson Read Free Book Online Page B

Dougal said. “’Tis money that keeps you at his bedside. All this while I thought it might be because he’s a handsome devil.” He was smiling, teasing her.
    “ ’Tis no joke,” she said, lifting the big knife and pointing it across the table to wiggle at her husband’s nose. “Finding this murderer in the ravine was a sign from God, that it was. We are to do the right thing, Dougal, and return him to the baron’s justice.”
    “Then why nurse him to health?” Dougal’s smile had faded.
    “Because any fool knows that a wanted man is worth far more alive than dead. This way, the lord can mete out his own punishment, make a display of him, show the people of his keep that he’s just and fair but will accept no man’s treachery, not even his own son’s.”
    Dougal’s gaze shot to Gavyn. “He’s the baron’s son?”
    “Bastard,” she said, a little glee in her voice over gossip of the highest order. “Born by a peasant woman from Tarth . . . some say a witch.”
    “Christ Jesus.”
    “And that’s not all.” Though Gavyn had no view of her face, he heard the smile of satisfaction in her words. “Rumor has it the boy’s mother was murdered by Deverill’s own men.”
    “What?”
    “Aye. Seems the Lord of Agendor planted his bastard seed in the woman from Tarth, sending the Lady of Agendor into a jealous fury, barren that she is.”
    Gavyn didn’t so much as breathe. How dared this wench spread such rot about his mother? His mother, a seamstress from the north, had been a good woman, far too loyal for her horrific fate.
    “What do I care of a scandal in Tarth, far to the north?” Dougal sputtered. “And ’twould not surprise me if the woman was slain at Deverill’s hands. Best steer clear of anything involving the Lord of Agendor.”
    “Too late for that, with his bastard son under our roof. Leave it to me. Deverill will pay dearly to have his troublesome son in hand.”
    “I don’t know . . . ,” the husband said nervously.
    “Leave it to me. This one is a wanted man. I haven’t been caring for him for naught. Before we let him go, he’ll fetch us a few pieces of silver.”
     
’Twas morning. From the darkness of his chamber at Chwarel, Hallyd heard the cock crow once, twice, thrice . . . and then silence. There was movement in the keep, the ordinary morning sounds of shuffling feet and murmurings, even the damned dogs barking. Soon the bells of morn would ring in the chapel—a hollow peal that he detested each dawn and dusk, for it reminded him of the days when he’d portrayed himself as a man of God, a believer in the holy faith. It had been a sham, of course, one of the many falsehoods of his life. In the past sixteen years, as he’d been kept an unchained prisoner in his own castle, Hallyd had moments of regret.
    He threw on a tunic and laced up his breeches, refusing to wait for the servant who would soon appear at his door with an irritating cheeriness that was like a rash on his skin. Was the man a moron? Always talking of what a great day it was to be, how busy he was, how interesting was this castle.
    ’Twas rot, and nothing more, Hallyd thought as he tugged on his own boots and remembered all too clearly why he’d been so punished, nearly blinded.
    He’d been young and his ardor had run hot and rash. Mistakenly he’d thought he could force a witch’s hand. Now, he knew, he first had to use trickery to gain what he wanted. Magick . . . the dark seduction his father had mastered. Fortunately, Vannora, the old one, had taught him well over the years, and he’d slowly shed his facade of godliness in favor of a darker visage.
    Vannora’s arts were of the most sinister form, the power she bestowed upon him a gift for so willingly giving up his soul.
    She had arrived at his keep soon after he’d lost his battle with Kambria, and it was Vannora who had advised him ever since. She had become his mentor, his guide, and though he followed her counsel, he did not completely