Haunted Ground Page 4

  And Mary… He could hardly blame Jasper for lusting after Mary. She’d always been the loveliest girl in the village, but Mary had been promised to Brendan these past six years, a contract arranged by their fathers when Mary turned twelve. The contract was still binding since Brendan was alive, but as far as Jasper and Mary were concerned, he might as well be dead since neither one of them saw fit to honor it. What would Mary’s father have to say had he known of Brendan’s return? Would he want his daughter to marry the penniless, disinherited son? It hardly mattered now. Brendan reached for his dagger and slid it beneath his pillow. Welcome home, Brendan, he told himself before drifting off into an uneasy sleep.

  Chapter 6

  The day dawned clear and bright, the sky a brilliant blue after days of drizzle punctuated by severe downpours; fluffy clouds lazily drifted across the face of the sun and cast shadows onto the muddy yard. The beauty of the September day was a stark contrast to Brendan’s mood as he packed a few belongings and chose a fresh horse from the stable. Poor Iver wasn’t ready for another journey. Brendan turned on his heel and walked back into the house, his mind made up. Jasper had asked him to leave quietly, but he would see his mother and say goodbye. Lord knew when he’d see her again, if ever, considering her ill health.

  Nan Carr looked small and still in her bed, her skin ashen against the white linen of the embroidered pillowcase. His mother was not yet fifty, but she looked like an old woman, having aged decades since his departure and the death of her husband. Several small pots containing evil-smelling potions sat on a stool by the bed, but they seemed to be doing little to heal his mother. If not for the barely perceptible rise and fall of her chest, she might have appeared dead. Brendan bent down and kissed her brow, making a sign of the cross over her in silent blessing. She never opened her eyes, but grabbed his hand with her bony fingers, holding his palm to her shriveled cheek, which was cold to the touch despite the blankets heaped on the bed. “I love you too, Mam,” he whispered in her ear before taking his leave.

  “Brendan, wait,” Meg called out as he came down the stairs. “I packed you some food for the journey.” She handed him a small bundle and a bottle of ale, which he accepted gratefully.

  “Meg, take care of yourself. You are a young woman still; you must see to your own life.” Meg shook her head in dismay.

  “Brendan, men see to their own lives; women take care of others. I can’t leave Mother in her condition, and I have two little ones to raise. ‘Myself’ is not a word that often comes to mind these days.” She kissed Brendan’s cheek and smiled up at him in that way that often hides a desire to cry. “I wish you didn’t have to go, Brendan. You’re the only one I trust these days.”

  “I will come back,” he promised.

  “Do.”

  Jasper was outside, leaning against the stable wall, his lips stretched into a smile that was brimming with smugness. Brendan stopped a few feet away, surveying his brother. He knew Jasper wouldn’t tell him the truth, but he had to ask all the same. He knew his brother well enough to spot a lie. “Did father really die of an apoplexy, Jasper?” he asked conversationally, studying Jasper’s face closely, his head cocked to the side like a watchful hound ready to pounce on its prey.

  “Aye, but I can’t say as I’m sorry. Chose a very opportune moment, he did,” Jasper replied, the smile never leaving his face. “I’m as strong, as smart, and as ambitious as you are, but being the younger son that’d never have mattered, would it? You sealed your fate when you rode out of this yard bent on your heroic quest to fight for liberty and equality. Fortune doesn’t always favor the brave, does it? Sometimes it favors the ones who are there at the right time.”

  “Thank you for your honesty, Jasper,” Brendan replied caustically. He couldn’t tell if Jasper had anything to do with their father’s death, but he could hear the threat in Jasper’s words. Jasper would see Brendan dead before he gave up what he perceived to be rightfully his, and whether he got it by an act of violence or by sheer cunning, he was here to stay.

  Brendan vaulted onto his horse, ready to depart. The way things stood, he wasn’t coming back home anytime soon, so he took a last longing look at the house where he was born and lived most of his life. It was solid and gray, its twin-peaked roof a stark contrast to the brightening sky, the windows alight with the rosy glow of the morning sun. The morning was filled with birdsong and the sound of restless animals in the barn; cows and goats needing to be milked and horses eager for their oats. A few chickens pecked in the dirt in search of juicy worms and a gray cat snuggled against the wall, its fur indistinguishable from the color of the stone until the cat opened its green eyes and gave Brendan a hard stare. He’d miss this place, now even more than when he was away fighting, for now he knew there was no going back.

  “Go with God, Brendan,” Jasper called out, waving a half-hearted goodbye as he stood in the center of the yard, the master of his domain.

  Brendan cantered out of the yard. He never looked back, having no desire to see the self-satisfied expression on Jasper’s face. He didn’t believe that Jasper killed their father, but he’d seized the opportunity life presented him with, taking the reins of the estate, betrothing himself to a girl Brendan had once hoped to marry, and getting rid of Brendan under the pretense of worrying for the safety of the family. Well done, brother, Brendan thought as he spurred the horse to a gallop, well done.

  Chapter 7

  Brendan looked around in an effort to distract himself from the lump of bitterness firmly lodged in his throat. The gentle breeze caressed his face while the sun warmed his shoulders and thighs, making him feel sluggish as he cantered along. The air smelled of damp earth, grass, and burning peat coming from some crofter’s cottage downwind. Unseen birds were singing their little hearts out, glad that the rain had finally given way to sunshine and warmth.

  At any other time, Brendan would have been happy just to be alive on a glorious morning such as this, but his stomach burned with anger as his mind kept returning to Jasper. He tried to calm himself by counting his blessings. At the moment, he was dry, clean, and well fed, so that was something. He’d always liked Uncle Caleb’s family, although he hadn’t seen them often. The last time had been Maisie’s wedding over five years ago. She was the youngest, so Uncle Caleb and Aunt Joan might be on their own and glad of some company and an extra pair of hands around the farm. Where some families lived ten to a room, Uncle Caleb had a fine cottage with lots of outbuildings and plenty of land. There’d be work for Brendan to do to repay his uncle for taking him in. There was peace to be found in hard work, and after what he’d seen, he was more than ready to step away from the fighting and devote himself to the life-affirming routine of daily living.

  Brendan smiled grimly as he thought of Mary. He naively thought that he was coming back to her, but clearly, it was never him she was interested in, but the status he would offer her. She’d been pliant and eager the few times he cornered her in her father’s barn, her kisses shy and intoxicating and her body soft and warm against his own. She’d been willing to let him go further, but he drew away from her as he murmured promises in her ear. He should have taken her when he had the chance, but he thought himself an honorable man and wanted to wait for their wedding night. It wouldn’t do anyone any good to leave her pregnant as he went off to fight, and Mary didn’t wish to be wed until he returned. Now he understood why. Had he still stood to inherit, she would have married him in a heartbeat, but had he been killed, she’d be a young widow who would have to mourn her husband and possibly miss out on the chance to marry his brother, who would now be the heir. Clever girl, our Mary, Brendan thought as he took a sip of ale from the stone bottle Meg had given him. He supposed he should thank Jasper for saving him from a loveless marriage. Let them have joy of each other, Brendan thought, they’re a fine match.

  Brendan stowed the bottle in his saddlebag, his body tensing as he heard the sound of hoofbeats coming from somewhere behind him. Three men appeared on the hori
zon a few minutes later, a cloud of dust churning under the hooves of their galloping horses. Soldiers could be easily identified by their short hair and garb, especially if they wore armor, but these men were civilians, farmers by the looks of them, and likely not a threat unless they were bent on thieving. He didn’t have much to take. Brendan drew to the side of the road prepared to let the men pass, but they seemed to slow down as they approached him from behind. Brendan glanced back to gauge the men’s intentions when his breath caught in his throat. He recognized them; they were friends of Jasper’s, and they were heavily armed. There was only one reason why three farmers would be out on the road this early armed to the teeth— this was no coincidental meeting.

  Brendan’s mind did a quick assessment of the situation. He couldn’t possibly outrun them, so he had to stay and fight. They were farmers, not warriors, and his only advantage was that he, at least, was better trained and blooded in real battle. But the odds weren’t in his favor. He looked from man to man, hoping that once they were face to face they might be dissuaded from their course, but all he saw in their eyes was sheer determination to carry out whatever their mission. Brendan put his hand on the hilt of his sword, but he wouldn’t strike the first blow.

  The men reined in their horses as they finally reached him. Brendan’s assumption that this was prearranged was reaffirmed by their lack of surprise at seeing him, and their hands on the hilt of their swords. Jasper must have left as soon as Brendan was out of sight, summoning his minions to do his dirty work.

  “I have no quarrel with you,” Brendan said, in a futile attempt to avoid a confrontation.

  “Nor we with you,” replied Gareth Carr, a distant cousin and a thug through and through. Gareth had always been built like an ox; his sheer size enough to intimidate any man. Gareth would have made an excellent soldier, but he only fought when the odds were in his favor and the outcome a foregone conclusion; he wasn’t one to risk his life in vain. The other two were Donald and Bob Haskell. Brendan hadn’t seen them in years, but they hadn’t changed much; still thin and wiry, with shifty eyes that betrayed their greedy nature. They’d kill their own mother for a few gold pieces if they could get away with it.

  “Then be on your way,” Brendan replied calmly, although he felt his chest constricting with foreboding. No one was going anywhere.

  “Oh, we will be, as soon as we’ve delivered compliments from your brother,” Gareth replied with a twisted smile. Brendan had already surmised that the men were here at Jasper’s behest, but hearing it from Gareth still had the power to shock him. He’d been a fool not to listen to Meg, and now he was alone, exposed, and outnumbered. Bloody fool, Brendan thought viciously, annoyed with himself for leaving himself open to an attack.

  He’d seen bloodlust often enough to recognize the signs and tightened his hand on the hilt of his sword. He’d known these men for most of his life, but that obviously held no sway over them as they reached for their steel. What had Jasper promised them to inspire such loyalty? Was it just coin, or was something more on offer? Gareth clearly had the lead, while the other two hung back a little, waiting for him to strike the first blow.

  Brendan flexed his hand around the hilt, tensed like a cat that was about to pounce, and cleared his mind of all thought except that of survival. He’d learned fighting techniques on the battlefield, and the tiniest distraction could be the difference between life and death. Being on horseback was a disadvantage, since he couldn’t turn fast enough to ward off a blow from the back, but if he dismounted and they didn’t, they’d hack him to pieces from above, wielding their swords like axes. He wished he was riding Iver. Iver had seen fighting many times and wasn’t as easily frightened as this horse that was nervously snorting and panting with fear as it sensed danger.

  The men surrounded Brendan, their smiles leering as they enjoyed their advantage. They were in no rush to charge him, using anticipation of a blow to unnerve him and provoke him into making a mistake. Brendan’s eyes bored into Gareth; since he was sure he would be first to strike. Gareth finally lunged at him and Brendan twisted out of the way of the sword, forcing Gareth to lose his balance for a moment. Brendan thrust forward, but Gareth managed to evade just as Bob Haskell came at him from the side and slashed his sword through Brendan’s thigh.

  Brendan roared in fury as pain ripped through him and blood soaked his breeches within moments. There was no chance of this being a fair fight, so he had to use whatever advantage he had before they chopped him to pieces. That blow was meant to wound, not to kill, so they wanted to play with him awhile, until he was weak and unable to fight. Well, he wouldn’t give them that pleasure. Gareth was laughing, his guard momentarily down as he turned to Bob with a grin on his ugly face. This was his moment. Brendan bent down as if in shock from the pain, then quickly raised his sword and brought it down with both hands on Gareth’s collarbone, nearly cleaving him in half. Gareth slid off his horse like a sack of turnips and fell to the side, his blood mixing with the dust as it flowed freely from the wound. Gareth still had a grin on his face, except there was also a look of surprise in his dead eyes that made his expression grotesque.

  Somewhere at the back of his mind Brendan was amazed that Gareth left himself open to the blow, but he didn’t dwell on his good fortune and focused on the other two, who were gaping at him with a mixture of fear and determination. With Gareth gone, Brendan thought they might flee, but whatever Jasper held over them was stronger than the fear of Brendan’s sword.

  There were still two against one, and the odds were in their favor, even if they weren’t born warriors, especially since he was already wounded and losing blood. He could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, his senses alert to every movement of his enemies. Soon he would start to feel lightheaded from loss of blood and his vision might start to blur, but for now, he was ready to fight — if not ready to die.

  Gareth had been about brute strength, but these two were more clever and agile. They exchanged a quick glance before starting to circle Brendan in an attempt to disorient him while they waited for the perfect moment to strike. He had to make the first move before they distracted him too much, so Brendan lunged at Donald just as his brother’s sword came down on his back, white-hot pain engulfing him in its grasp, but he couldn’t afford to lose focus. Brendan spun around, driving his sword into Bob’s stomach as another blow from Donald caught him on the arm. He could barely lift his sword, but he managed to swing it with both hands, catching Donald across the face.

  Donald yelped, holding his hand against his bleeding face as if to hold it together, but the blood oozed between his fingers, soaking his sleeve and dripping on his thigh. Brendan didn’t wait for him to recover as he drove his sword between Donald’s ribs, watching in fascination as the man’s mouth opened in astonishment before he fell into the dust, his lifeblood draining out of him and mingling with the dirt. Rob was still alive, moaning and begging Brendan for mercy, but there was nothing to be done, even had he been of a mind to help the man who’d been sent to kill him. The only thing he could do for him was put him out of his misery, which he would have done had he been able to get off his horse.

  Brendan felt faint as the bloodlust began to ebb and the reality of his situation sank in. He was bleeding profusely and feeling weaker by the minute as blinding pain held him in its grip from all sides. He hugged the horse’s neck, resting his head against its warm flesh, the silky mane comforting against his burning cheek. If he didn’t get to his uncle, he would die here in the middle of nowhere, and no one except for Meg and his mother would know or care.

  Chapter 8

  Thick clouds obscured the sun and the sky turned nearly black as another storm threatened to break at any moment. An ominous silence descended after a flock of crows rose into the sky like black omens of doom, cawing madly and flapping their wings against the gathering wind. Brendan’s horse ambled into the yard just as the first crack of lightning split the sky and the rain began to pelt his back, marginally cool
ing the burning wound. Within moments he was soaked, blood-tinged rainwater running down his legs and over the flanks of the horse. Brendan would have fallen into the mud had his uncle not caught him under the arms, barely managing to keep his own balance. He had no recollection of the ride to his uncle’s house, slipping in and out of consciousness as he held on to the horse’s mane for dear life to keep him from sliding off.

  “I got you, lad, I got you. What in God’s name happened?” Uncle Caleb panted as he half carried Brendan into the house, calling to his wife for water and bandages. Brendan tried to reply, but his tongue wouldn’t work and an all-encompassing blackness descended on him as he gratefully embraced it.

  The room was shrouded in darkness as Brendan came to, rain lashing against the shutters with a ferocity that filled the house with the sound of the downpour. Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance, but the brunt of the storm seemed to have passed. Brendan nearly cried out with pain, but bit his tongue at the sight of the girl. Her profile was illuminated by the single candle burning only inches away from her face; the flame flickering in the wind seeping through the crack in the shutters. She was grinding something in a mortar as she gripped the pestle with both hands, using all her strength. Brendan tried to get a better look at the girl, but his vision was blurred and the room was too dim to see her features clearly. She wasn’t one of his cousins, of that he was sure. Maybe she was a servant. His mind refused to focus as wave after wave of pain radiated from his wounds making him feel as if he’d been flayed. He must have moaned because the girl’s head shot up, her frightened eyes glued to the bed.