Authors: Amanda Ashley
“You cannot prove that!”
“I obtained a confession from one of the women before she died, madam. She named Lord Jarrett of Greyebridge Castle a traitor. The punishment for treason is death. He is lucky he still has his head.”
“What bribe did you offer the woman, that she would bespeak such a horrible lie?”
Guilt flickered in the back of Rorke’s devil-black eyes and Sherriza knew she had guessed right.
Rorke grunted softly. Sherriza was more perceptive than he had supposed. He had, indeed, offered the Aldanite woman a bribe. He had promised to spare the lives of her children in return for her mark upon a written confession. She had died reminding him of that promise.
“I thought so,” Sherriza said. “Anyone who knows Jarrett knows he would never betray his King or his country.”
“So you say, but I will have his confession, written in his own hand, before the new moon, and that will put an end to all doubt of his guilt.”
“Do to him what you will, my son will never confess to such an outrageous lie!”
“I think he will,” Rorke replied confidently. “And when I have it, I will see that you receive a copy.”
“Tyrell will hear of this,” Sherriza warned. “He will not look kindly upon you for sending Jarrett to the Pavilion. Nor do I think you will escape unscathed when he learns that you have reinstated the Games.”
A dark flush of anger washed into Rorke’s cheeks. Everything she said was true. For a moment, he thought of having Taark dispose of the troublesome woman, but then he remembered his vow to Jarrett, sworn on his own mother’s honor. He comforted himself with the knowledge that, in the long run, Sherriza was no threat. Jarrett would be long dead before she reached Aldane. And Tyrell too.
Rising, he clapped his hands once, sharply.
Immediately, four of the King’s men came forward.
“A ship awaits my Lady Sherriza,” Rorke said, speaking to the captain of the guard who stood to the right of his chair. “These men will accompany her to Aldane.”
“Yes, Milord,” the captain replied.
“See to it.”
“Rorke, I beg you, let me see my son before I go.”
He glanced at Leyla. Wanting her to think well of him, he decided to be generous. “As you wish. Captain Taark, escort the Lady Sherriza to the Pavilion.”
Sherriza stood up. Turning to Leyla, she embraced her. “My thoughts and prayers will be with you,” she murmured. “Have you any word for Jarrett?”
“Only give him my love and tell him I wait for the day when we can be together again.”
With a nod, Sherriza turned away and followed Taark out of the dining hall, followed by the four King’s men who had been instructed to see her to Aldane.
The harsh rasp of a key turning in the lock roused Jarrett from a restless sleep. Still shackled to the wall, he turned toward the door, all his senses suddenly alert.
He tensed as a hand settled on his shoulder. Expecting Rorke, he was taken aback to hear his mother’s voice.
“Jeri, it’s me.” Sherriza stared at the hideous black hood that covered her son’s head and neck like a shroud.
Her heart twisted with pain and despair as she noted the taut muscles in his shoulders, arms, and legs, a tenseness that revealed not only his discomfort, but also his rage. And his fear.
“Are you well?” she asked.
“Well enough.”
She shook her head as she glanced around the barren cell. The walls and floor were made of stone. An iron-bound table fitted with leather straps stood to one side. There were no windows, no other source of light save for the candle she held in her hand. A covered chamber pot stood in one corner, its malodorous smell permeating the air.
Placing the candle in a holder near the door, Sherriza removed the hood from Jarrett’s head and tossed it aside. “Beastly thing,” she muttered.
“You should not have come here.” Jarrett looked away, unable to bear the pity in his mother’s eyes. “This is not how I wish to be remembered.”
“What do you mean?”
“Rorke wants me out of the way. Permanently out of the way.”
“For all his threats, he would not dare! Not without the King’s knowledge and approval.”
Jarrett met his mother’s horrified stare with a level gaze. “You know he would,” he replied quietly. “Have you seen Leyla?”
“She sends her love, Jeri. She would have come if she could.”
“He means to have her.” He ground the words through clenched teeth. The thought of Rorke holding Leyla, touching her, possessing her, was like a blade twisting ever deeper in his gut.
“I feared as much, but there is nothing I can do. Nothing you can do but hope he tires of her quickly and sends her home.”
Cursing under his breath, Jarrett tugged against the heavy chains that shackled him to the wall, heedless of the pain as the thick iron cuffs cut into his flesh. “I’ve got to get out of here!”
“Jeri, stop,” Sherriza begged. She placed her hands on his wrists, hoping to stop his frenzied struggles, sickened by the warm stickiness of his blood beneath her fingertips. “Please, stop.”
With a sigh of resignation, he slumped against the wall.
“Listen to me,” Sherriza urged. “Rorke is sending me to Aldane. I’ll talk to Morrad. He’ll heed what I say. Somehow, we’ll get word to Tyrell. I’m certain he doesn’t know the whole story.”
Jarrett’s gaze rested on his mother’s face. “There won’t be time.”
Sherriza shook her head, fearing he was right, yet not wanting to believe that the man who had once been her son’s best friend was capable of such treachery.
“Jeri, don’t give up hope. I’ll…” She bit back her words as the captain of the guard entered the cell.
“It is time to go, my Lady,” Taark said.
“Jeri…don’t despair,” Sherriza begged as Taark led her out of the cell and gave her into the keeping of his men.
She glanced over her shoulder, her heart aching at the thought of leaving her son in such a dismal place. And yet, more terrible than the thought of leaving him was the thought that she might never see him again. And then they were leading her away.
Turning back into the room, Taark picked up the hood, running his fingers over the heavy black fabric for a few moments.
Like most men who visited the Pavilion, he had tried the hood on, and immediately taken it off. There was something malevolent about that bit of black cloth, something that called up a man’s most primal fears.
He stared at Jarrett, saw the look of dread in the rebel’s eyes as he stepped closer and then, with a shrug, he dropped the heavy black hood over the prisoner’s head and snugged it down tight.
Jarrett’s muscles tensed as the hood settled into place. He took a deep breath, willing himself to relax as the material molded itself to his face. Stifling, sinister, it blocked every trace of light, filling his mind with images of the darkest corner of Hadra.
He bit back the urge to beg Taark to dispense with the hood for one night only, knowing the captain of the guard would take it as a sign of weakness. No doubt Taark would be amused by such a request. But how could anyone know the horror of the hood unless they’d worn it?
Taark stared at the hooded man for a moment longer, feeling a grudging sympathy for the Gweneth rebel, and then he blew out the candle and left the cell, closing the door behind him.
Whistling softly, he made his way down the narrow corridor, suddenly anxious to feel the sunlight on his face.
Jarrett’s head came up as the cell door swung open. He heard the muffled sound of footsteps as someone entered the room, felt the faint smoky heat of a torch as it was placed in the holder to the left of the doorway.
And then he heard Rorke’s voice, low and mocking. “So, my Lord Jarrett, I hope you find your lodgings to your liking.”
Jarrett stiffened as he felt the hard edge of fine Fenduzian steel against his chest.
“Are you asleep under there?” Rorke asked, tugging on the edge of the hood. “Perhaps this will wake you.”
Jarrett sucked in a deep breath as Rorke dragged the tip of the sword across his chest. He shuddered as the cold steel pierced his flesh like frozen fire, bit down on the inside of his cheek as the warm sticky wetness of his blood trailed in the wake of the blade.
“Still nothing to say?” Rorke asked, resting the point of the blade in the hollow of Jarrett’s throat.
“What do you wish to hear, Rorke?”
“Ah, so you can speak.” Rorke lifted the blade, then drew the point down the length of Jarrett’s chest to rest against his groin. “Yes, I believe I will have you gelded,” Rorke mused. “It will prove a pleasant diversion on a dreary evening.”
Jarrett silently cursed the hood that kept him from seeing his enemy’s face. “What do you want of me?”
“A direct question,” Rorke remarked, sheathing his sword. “I’ll give you a direct answer. I want Greyebridge. I’ve wanted it ever since I was old enough to know it was to be yours.”
“Why? You have lands and holdings of your own.”
Rorke made a sound of derision as he jerked the mask from Jarrett’s head. “It all belongs to Darrla. I want a plot of ground that is mine, only mine.”
“There are other castles you can have.”
“I want Greyebridge and I mean to have it.” Rorke fingered the hideous scar on his cheek. “I’ve never forgiven you for this. Or for Caandis. Or for those hellish days I spent in a Serimite dungeon. I want Greyebridge.” Rorke paused, and then nodded. “And I want the crown.”
“The crown!” Jarrett exclaimed softly. “You are even more ambitious than I supposed.”
Rorke nodded. “I want it all,” he admitted. “Only two things stand between me and the throne. Tyrell. And Darrla.”
Jarrett took a deep breath, fighting to keep his growing anxiety under control. “Tyrell won’t live much longer. When he dies, you’ll rule with Darrla.”
“I don’t want to share the throne. With Darrla out of the way, Jerrian is next in line. But he’s just a boy and the crown will be mine.” Rorke frowned thoughtfully. “The King is old. A bit of poison in his ale and none will be the wiser.”
“What of Darrla?”
“What of her? Women are easily disposed of, even sisters to the King.”
The man was mad, Jarrett thought. He must be mad to plot not only the death of his wife, but the King’s as well.
Jarrett took a deep breath. He had no fear of death for himself, only fear for what would become of those he loved.
“What of my mother?” he asked.
“She sails for Aldane.”
“And Leyla?”
Clasping his hands behind his back, Rorke walked the length of the narrow chamber and back again. It was a dismal little cell, cold and dark, heavy with the smell of sweat and blood and excrement.
Jarrett felt his heart pound with fear. “What of Leyla?” he repeated.
“She is my guest. I find her to be a woman of rare beauty. She would make a fine queen, don’t you think?” He nodded, pleased with the idea. “She is so lovely, so young. So easily molded. And since she is not one of us, she would never be a threat to me or to the throne.”
“Don’t touch her, Rorke, I warn you!”
Rorke’s laughter filled the small cell. “You warn me!” He drew his blade and slapped the flat of it across Jarrett’s chest. “You insolent knave, there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”
Rorke smiled, pleased with his cunning. “Yes,” he mused aloud. “I shall have it all. And when I am King, I shall move the throne from Heth to Greyebridge, and I will rule from there, with Leyla at my side.”
A harsh cry of rage was torn from Jarrett’s throat as he strained against the shackles that bound his arms and legs to the cold stone wall.
And with that rage came a deep and abiding fear that Rorke would do as he threatened. The man was capable of murder. He had killed Caandis, he had killed the Aldanite women and children in Greyebridge chapel, thereby stilling their tongues forever. He would not hesitate to kill his wife if he thought it would further his ambition. And Tyrell was old, so old. No one would suspect foul play if he should be found dead in his chambers.
“Rorke, don’t do it. I beg of you, let Leyla return to her own people.”
“Aye.” Rorke smiled. “Beg me, my Lord Jarrett,” he said with a sadistic smile. “I should like that.”
“I’ll do whatever you ask, just let her go in peace. She’s a gentle woman, Rorke, she’ll never be happy at court.”
Rorke yawned. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
“Unchain me, and I’ll go down on my knees if that’s what it takes. Only promise me you’ll let her go.”
“I make no promises now. I shall wait until I have taken her to my bed. If she pleases me, I shall keep her. If not, I might let her go. Then again, I might not.” Rorke smiled smugly, his eyes cold and cruel. “Whatever happens to her, you will not be here to see it.”
“Rorke! By Hadra, you’ll never be free of me if you hurt her.”
“You have gall enough for ten men, my Lord Jarrett,” Rorke mused as he dropped the hood in place once more. “But I fear it will avail you nothing. Think of her in my chambers while you await the waters of the pool. Perhaps I shall let you see her one last time.” Rorke shrugged. “Perhaps not. Rest well, my Lord.”
Knowing it was useless, Jarrett pulled against his bonds. The heavy chains bit deep into the flesh of his wrists and ankles, but his fury was stronger than the pain. He bellowed with rage, his mind filling with images of Leyla struggling in Rorke’s embrace. Rorke! What manner of man was he, to speak so easily of murdering the mother of his children, of murdering his King?
Fury seared Jarrett’s soul. Rorke wanted Greyebridge. He wanted the throne. He wanted Leyla and, by Hadra, he would have them all and there was nothing Jarrett could do about it.
A low cry of anguish rose in Jarrett’s throat as he slumped against the cold stone wall, the ache in his heart as black as the darkness that lived within the hood.