Free Sorceress by Lisa Jackson Page B

this how?” the Lord of Agendor asked the pathetic priest standing before him. He was tired and ready for bed when Father Peter, named after Christ’s most trusted disciple, had imposed upon him.
    ’Twas odd.
    But then so was the priest.
    Not trustworthy.
    Father Peter was a fleshy man with a hooked nose, weak chin, and absolutely no spine whatsoever. His piety was questionable, his loyalty always in doubt. Yet here he was, in the great hall of Agendor, as if he had some pressing news to impart, or his own conscience to clear.
    Deverill waved him into the other chair, one with shorter legs to ensure that no one ever sat taller than the baron.
    The priest took the seat gratefully and eyed a platter of cheese, dried prunes, and jellied eggs as hungrily as did the castle dogs who lay near the fire, watching each bite that went into the lord’s mouth.
    “A cup for the priest,” Deverill said to a page who had refilled his goblet with wine. He noticed the tiniest of smiles upon the thin lips of this supposed man of God. “Now tell me, Father, in great detail, what it is you think you know.”
    And the priest did. As he gulped wine and stuffed himself with cheese, bread, and eggs, Father Peter explained that he’d spoken to a man—not during confession, of course—about a wounded man who’d shown up at Dougal the farmer’s hut nearly a fortnight hence. The man was near dead, to hear Dougal tell it, and without the nursing of his wife, Vala, would not have lived.
    “She be a witch, then?” Deverill stated.
    “Oh, nay, nay, a pious, God-fearing woman is Vala.” The priest shook his head and swiped at a few crumbs that had fallen onto his cassock.
    The three dogs were on their paws in an instant, growling at each other, the largest bitch grabbing the morsel.
    “Sit!” Deverill ordered, and the mongrels, snarling just a bit, their silvery-black hackles still stiff, returned to their place by the fire. “Miserable curs,” he said, though in truth he loved the dogs, mayhap more than he did his most recent and decidedly barren wife.
    “Vala has a talent, a gift from God in aiding the sick, but I assure you, m’lord, she does not practice the dark arts, nor dabble in the ways of the old ones.”
    “Then let us visit her.”
    “Now?” the priest said.
    “If ’tis true and she’s hiding the traitor, then we shall arrest him.” Deverill snapped his fingers at a page. “Tell the stable master to prepare my horse and alert the captain of the guard that I need five men to ride with me.”
    “But, m’lord,” the priest protested, obviously distraught, “I was given this information in confidence, and Dougal promised to surrender his . . . prisoner on the morn.”
    “No need to wait then, is there? You said yourself, you did not tell me of another man’s confession. So there is naught to fear, for you’ve broken none of your vows.”
    The priest blanched.
    Serves the pious liar right, Deverill thought, already on his feet. Sensing his excitement, the dogs swarmed around him as he ordered the servants to fetch his mantle, sword, and boots. A thrill of excitement sizzled through his blood. If the priest were telling the truth and Dougal had not just been bragging, then, at last, here was a chance to bring Gavyn to justice.
    His back teeth clenched hard as he considered his bastard son, the result of many a night spent with a comely seamstress who lived on the outskirts of Agendor. True, as a young man he’d planted his seed wherever he saw fit. ’Twas his grave misfortune that the one bastard child he knew of, the only fruit of his loins, would prove to be a defiant scallywag.
    Even as a youth, Gavyn had been a thorn in his side. The boy had resisted Deverill’s help, refusing to catch a few coins tossed his way, never meeting Deverill’s eye. Were his mother not so engaging, Deverill would have flogged the boy himself, more than once. But Ravynne with her ebony hair and silver eyes . . . how they’d rutted