Was it just a hope of the people who disliked the new baron?
Or could some person betray him? He fought an unwelcome sense that it might be Anna herself who could do as much and resolved to confide as little as possible in his unexpected partner.
They would see Percy free, retrieve Duncan’s bag, then his path and Anna’s would part forever. Indeed, visiting the hall might provide him with an inside view of how best to recover his lost legacy. Without learning the situation, he could not devise a plan.
There was always a chance that the baron would step aside in the name of justice.
A small chance, to be sure.
“Sir Royce Montclair is known for his greed hereabouts,” Anna said, unable to hide her scorn. “He shows great enthusiasm in gathering taxes, purportedly for the crown, though there have been those who doubted that all the coin went to the king’s court.”
“But there is doubt no longer?” Fergus asked.
Anna gave a short laugh. “There are no longer any who express their doubt. He is…thoroughin eliminating dissent in his holding.”
Bartholomew saw her lift a finger and point into the forest. He frowned as he followed her gaze, seeing there was an area to one side of the road that was blackened and burned. It was strange to see the blackened stumps of the trees amidst freshly fallen snow, the sky clear overhead, in the midst of such a vigorous forest.
“There was where he routed those who last rose against him in rebellion. They fled into the woods and he had a great circle set ablaze. His men stood around the perimeter, waiting for the fire to consume them all.” She shuddered so that Bartholomew gripped her hand beneath his once more. “I still hear their final cries in my dreams,” she concluded, her voice husky.
“When was this?”
“Two years ago.” He felt her straighten, and she pulled her hand from his grasp.
Who had she lost in that blaze?
“Where were you?” he asked quietly, but she did not reply.
“Has Sir Royce a wife? Or family?” Duncan asked.
“He has a wife, for his marriage was arranged by the crown. He returned from Winchester with her eight years past.”
“Her name?”
“Lady Marie de Naumiers. She has yet to bear him a child, though, and is seldom seen outside the keep’s walls. There is no gossip, for she brought her own maids, and they seldom leave the keep either.” She paused. “He is said to have been wed before, but that his first wife died after the death of their only child. He remained unwed for so long that the king arranged the match with Lady Marie.”
The village appeared ahead of them, its location evident because the trees were cleared and huts were visible. As they rode closer, Bartholomew saw that there were few people for a village of such size. They were dirty, as Anna had been, more dirty than been the case in other villages where their party had stopped. Those villagers who watched their progress were wary. He saw an older couple step out of one house, then two men of roughly his own age, one with a single infant and the other with a pair of very young children. What had happened to the mothers? He heard goats bleating but could not see them.
A sturdy man looked up from his garden, which could only have had cabbage at this time of year and that beneath the snow, and glowered at them. His wife watched sullenly from the portal to their hut. The company rode closer together without exchanging any words, for there was hostility in the manner of those who observed their progress.
“Where are the children?” he asked Anna softly.
“Who would willingly bring a child into this realm?”
It was but half an answer, though Bartholomew guessed she would not confide more. Were these the survivors of the fire? Or the only ones who had not fled?
Had Anna and Percy been alone in the forest? He would have to ask her later.
“Pull up your hood to be sure you are not recognized,” he murmured.
“Aye, husband,” she said, her tone as close to biddable as he might have expected. In other circumstance, he might have smiled at her manner.
But they passed through the last of the forest and he saw the keep of Haynesdale in its full majesty. The sight drew him to an astonished halt. In contrast to the hard scrabble and dirt of the village, the wooden curtain wall around the keep was high and straight. The keep sat on the top of a mound, commanding the entire area, a vivid pennant snapping from its square tower. The keep was large, far larger than he might have imagined, and it bore no resemblance to any place he recalled. It seemed that Anna’s notions of coin for taxes remaining in the barony were not unfounded, for such a fortress would have been costly to build.
“What a fine keep,” Bartholomew said, unable to hide the wonder from his voice. “Is this holding so likely to be assaulted as it appears?”
“A man with few allies and fewer friends might fear as much,” Anna whispered. “Construction began before the wedding and took years.”
Worse than being newly constructed and large, the keep would be heavily armed. Bartholomew knew a moment’s dread, for he would make his future within these walls or ensure that he had none. How would they find and free Percy? How would they reclaim the prize in Duncan’s saddlebag? How would they escape?
