She walked steadily toward Erbyn. The gate to the outer bailey was open, but could only be reached by crossing the heavy timbers of a drawbridge spanning a steep canyon. Flanking the portcullis were two round towers, twice the size of any towers at Castle Prydd.
Though it was approaching dark, people moved freely along the rutted road. Wagons and peddlers’ carts, men and women on foot as well as those astride horses, teemed toward the gate. Despite the blasts of frigid wind that ripped the cowl from Sorcha’s head and drove the icy rain against her body, she noticed that most of the travelers were laughing and talking among themselves. Already the spirit of the Christmas revels was in the air. Sorcha only hoped that with the holy season upon them, the guards at Erbyn would be less suspicious.
She tagged behind a farmer’s wagon, hoping to appear one of the peddlers, troubadours, and minstrels who were making their way to the castle. Stepping around a pile of dung, she slowed her walk as the gatekeepers eyed each of the travelers.
Her heart was thundering and sweat collected between her shoulder blades as she passed by the guard. Without a second look, he waved her on, paying more attention to two on horseback. Her knees nearly gave way in relief and she continued through the outer bailey. Gardens, now choked with weeds, were rivers of mud, and rainwater ran down the thatch of the roofs to drip along the edge of each hut. Cows were penned in one corner of the grassland, and a quintain stood unattended in a marshy field. Several archers braved the weather. With leathery faces and taut bows, they wagered on their skills, then took aim on targets propped against piles of straw. Stables and sheds held horses and pigs while sheep grazed on the wet grass.
“Halt,” a guard bellowed as she attempted to walk beneath the portcullis. His face was pockmarked, and his lank hair, wet from the drizzling rain, was flattened to his head. “State yer business.”
While her insides quivered, Sorcha forced what she hoped was an innocent smile. “ ’Tis with the cook, Ada, I’m wishin’ to speak. I got goose eggs to sell, and ivy and mistletoe for the yule.” She winked at the guard and offered him a peek at her basket. “And what would the Christmas revels be without a spot of mistletoe, eh?”
Flushing, he laughed. “Ye can pass, then, as long as ye be savin’ a bit of the mistletoe fer me.”
Sorcha giggled and managed to keep a sharp retort from slipping over her tongue. ’Twould not do to let even a lowly gate guard guess her intentions, so she swung her hips in the manner of a bawdy wench.
Some of the servant girls were lingering near the well, and a boy was dipping his net into a fish pond. Chickens scattered as she passed, and doves flapped near the dovecote.
The kitchen was attached to the castle, though the bakery was in a small hut of its own. As she hurried by the open door, she felt the heat from the great ovens and smelled the odors of apples and nutmeg and cinnamon.
Her stomach rumbled, but she pressed on, ignoring her hunger. At the door of the kitchen were two broad-shouldered huntsmen, hoisting between them the carcass of a deer tied to a pole. They held the heavy beast while listening to a large woman with a flushed face and fleshy arms and a tongue as sharp as Isolde’s magic knife.
“… for the love of Saint Peter, why ye think I’ll be takin’ my time to skin that beast, I’ll not be knowing.”
The huntsmen grumbled, and the cook wagged a fat finger in their faces. “The baron will be back soon, and I’ll not be wantin’ to complain about the likes of you!”
“ ’Tis for the baron that we brought the buck,” the older boy proclaimed.
“Then take it to the tanner, see that ’e ’elps you skin the bloody thing, and count yer blessings that I won’t report you to the steward. God in ’eaven!” she mumbled as the huntsmen, jaws set, carried their prize along a trail toward the hut.
“And me, busy as I am, expectin’ the lord any time.”
Sorcha’s stomach curled in sudden dread. “Lord Hagan is coming home?”
“Aye. One of the scouts said he’ll be home the day after the morrow.”
Relief flooded through Sorcha. There was still time before the dark one returned.
“Now, then, miss, what’ve ye got in yer basket?”
“Eggs and mistletoe for the yule.”
“Humph.” The big woman scowled as she peeked into Sorcha’s basket. “Eggs, we got.”
“Aye, but these are from me father’s geese …” Sorcha waggled the basket beneath the cook’s nose yet again, and as the big woman looked through the ivy, mistletoe, and holly, Sorcha stole a glance into the kitchen. It was a big room, with two fire pits. In one pit a pig was roasting, its fat melting and sizzling on the coals; in the other, stuffed eels, their skins tightly sewn together, were suspended above the flames. Little red apples filled a large pail by the door. A big scarred table was shoved into a corner, and an arch in the back wall opened to a few steps and the entrance into the great hall. Just as the traitor had forespoken.
“Well … I said name yer price,” the cook repeated, her piglike eyes squinting suspiciously when Sorcha didn’t respond.
“My father sends the Christmas greens as a gift to the lord, and the eggs he’ll sell for the same price as hen’s eggs.”
“Is that so?”
“ ’Tis the yule season, sister,” Sorcha said, though the words nearly stuck in her throat, “and my father has been blessed to have Lord Hagan as his baron.”
Ada grinned a big, gap-toothed smile at the bargain. “Well, come in, come in. We’ll empty yer basket without gettin’ our ’eads wet.” She waved rough red fingers toward the fire. “Warm yer ’an
ds while I get the steward to pay you.” Sorcha followed her into the room and set her basket on the table. “And who is this father of yours?”
“Will … Will Carter,” Sorcha answered, having concocted the lie on her way to the castle. She opened her palms to the fire where the pig was roasting. Nestled in the coals was a pot filled with eggs and boiling water. Smoke curled through the kitchen, and lard bubbled beneath the boar’s thick hide. From the corner of her eye, Sorcha studied the opening into the interior of the castle. She edged closer to the archway. There was a short corridor with stairs winding upward from either end. One set of stairs led to the chambers above the kitchen, the other was the gateway to the lord’s room. Another archway opened to the great hall. Sorcha’s stomach curdled at the thought that Darton was probably close. And Leah, locked away. But where?