he grasped the man’s shoulders and offered, “Go to your maker with a clean heart. Tell me and I will see you are buried with the blessing of the Church. Matilda or Thornson’s lady?”
“Aye.” The man’s whispered answer was barely audible.
“Who?” Darius leaned down to better hear the answer, but the only sound that met his ears was the lapping of water at the edge of the beach. The man heaved one last breath and died.
Darius released the body. What could have been the end of one task was now reduced to a gain of nothing.
“Milord, shall we follow the others into the cave?”
Darius glanced from Osbert to the approaching sea. The incoming tide would soon crash against the rocks. Any caught between the sea and the cliff would be crushed.
He glanced at the steep rock face. The darker waterline high above them was visible in the moon’s light. The height made following the smugglers into the cave dangerous: water would soon flood the unfamiliar escape route.
Since the possibility of a watery grave was not to his liking, he answered Osbert, “Nay. There is no more time this night.” Darius rose and waved toward the dead bodies of the smugglers. “Gather the dead.”
“Why not leave them here for the sea to bury?” Sir Osbert shrugged. “Let their death befit their deeds.”
“I will not have that on my soul.” Darius stared down at his captain. “Gather the dead. Take all but this one to the church in Thornson and let the villagers deal with them in whatever manner they desire.”
A solitary figure backed farther away from the mouth of the cave, into the safety provided by the network of tunnels. He clenched his jaw with helpless rage, then whispered, “Fools.”
These strangers knew not with whom they dealt. Swift and deadly justice would be their prize for interfering in things they did not understand.
He was sick unto death of serving another. It was time he answer only to the king. He deserved that privilege. Surely none would disagree. He would see to the strangers’ deaths himself. He had already risked much—even murder—to get this far. It would be only right that he be the one to hold the sword to their necks.
The sea pounded against the rock cliffs, echoing like thunder across the open grassy land between the forest and Thornson Keep. On such a clear, sunny morning the rumbling echoed ominously.
From the cover of the trees Darius stared up at the great stone keep. The sound of the crashing waves reverberated through him, providing the perfect setting for the coming attack.
The king had given him the men, arms and gold needed to complete this part of his task—to take and hold Thornson Keep. After studying the keep’s layout, he had assumed his force would be more than enough—he couldn’t have been more wrong.
They’d rushed the keep repeatedly yesterday to no avail. As far as he could tell, Thornson’s force had been decreased by four men. But Darius had lost one of Faucon’s men when the scaling ladder was pushed away from the wall and the man hit the hard earth, snapping his neck. Hopefully, his brother the Comte would take the situation into consideration when he learned the news.
Darius took another look at the parchment with the building plans before crumpling them and tossing the useless information to the ground. He stared back up at Thornson. It was more fortress than keep.
Continued battling would be a waste of time and lives. He and his pitiful band of men could batter at the gates until the world ended and it would make no difference to those inside.
The thought of laying siege crossed his mind—briefly. Darius’s instincts warned him that he and those with him would die of old age before Thornson’s stores dwindled.
How was he to hold the keep if he could not find a way to gain control?
And why did the king seem not to know of this situation? Perhaps he did know and simply did not care, or think it worth mentioning.
Sir Osbert joined him at the edge of the clearing. “Milord, have you done something to anger King Stephen or Queen Maud?” Osbert’s stare remained on Thornson.
“Besides the false accusations they lay at my feet, nothing I am aware of comes to mind.”
“How do they expect you to take and hold this keep?” Osbert swung around and looked at Darius. “We would need more than twice the manpower we have.”
“I know.” His captain was correct. Thirty men would not be able to breach Thornson’s thick, stone walls. “I thought we would try the direct approach next.”
“The direct approach?”
“Aye.” Darius stared at his captain, waiting for the objections sure to come.
Osbert widened his eyes. “You think to just ride up to the gate, accuse them of being traitors and demand they hand over the keep?”
“It is worth a try.” In truth, Darius held little hope that the tactic would work. While it would be an easy thing to lay the smuggling operation at Thornson’s feet, it might not prove as easy to place that burden on the traitor’s widow.
However, he had a gut feeling that someone at Thornson might want the dead body currently draped across the back of one of Darius’s horses.
“But, Milord…”
“Even if we do not accuse them outright, Thornson died months ago.” Darius cut off his man’s further objections. “His widow holds the keep. Do you think she enjoys the work and responsibility something that size requires?” When Osbert said nothing, Darius continued. “If that isn’t enough incentive, surely someone wishes to lay claim to the body we possess.”
Osbert sat back in his saddle, contemplating Darius’s explanation. Finally, the man nodded. “Aye, it is worth a try.”
“I am glad you agree.” His sarcasm was clearly lost on the captain. Darius pulled a rolled parchment from a strap on his saddle. “And if either of those ideas fails, perhaps the king’s written orders will help convince Thornson’s lady to see reason.”
Sir Osbert nodded, then turned his horse around. “I will gather a few men to join us.”
“Four archers will be enough.” While Darius held little hope that this would work, he was not foolish enough to think it held no risk. The archers could provide the cover needed if they had to beat a hasty retreat. “And we’ll take the body with us to the gates.”
Osbert and the archers joined Darius in a few minutes. Darius led them out of the woods wondering if it would be a bad day to die. He squinted against the bright sunlight and hoped the Saints would be for him and not against him this day.
He, the four archers, Osbert and the horse with the body slung over its back crossed the expanse of open land toward Thornson.
The wind howled, buffeting them with a force that threatened to knock them from their mounts.
Darius kept his gaze trained on the wall. Though Thornson’s men peered between the crenellations, none had aimed arrows at Darius or his companions. Still, he did not relax his focus. They were
