Betrayal Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Title

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Hassani Lineage

  About the author

  Preview of

  Chapter 1

  Archer of the

  Heathland

  Book Two

  Betrayal

  J.W.Elliot

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, historical events, or locations are entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 J.W. Elliot

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system except as may be expressly permitted in writing by the publisher.

  Bent Bow Publishing

  P.O. Box 1426

  Middleboro, MA 02346

  Cover Design by Brandi Doane McCann

  If you enjoy this book, please consider leaving an honest review on Amazon and sharing on your social media sites.

  Please sign up for my newsletter where you can get a free short story and more free content at: www.jwelliot.com

  TO MY CHILDREN

  Book Two

  Betrayal

  Chapter 1

  Killian peered at the blood-spattered message. “They’re missing, Your Grace,” he said.

  Killian watched as the Duke of Saylen revolved on the spot and resumed pacing the velvet carpet that covered the floor of his tent. Fine incense glowed red in the brass burner, letting off the rich, pungent smell of exotic resins from the continent. The Duke never had liked the stench of an army encampment.

  He was a powerful man with broad shoulders and an angular jaw. His sandy-brown hair was beginning to thin. Killian glanced down at the document in his hands. The message had been scrawled in a hurried script and the ink had smeared. Flecks of mud and dark, red splotches of blood speckled the paper.

  “We’ll be surrounded in a few days,” the Duke said.

  “Yes, My Lord.” Killian noted the streak of mud on his own sleeve. He withdrew the red, silk handkerchief from his pocket and scrubbed the spot away. Even in an army camp, it wouldn’t do to appear too casual.

  The Duke fell into the leather-covered chair before his writing desk and placed his head in his hands.

  “And the messengers?” the Duke asked.

  “Dead, My Lord.”

  The Duke slammed his fist onto the table, causing the inkwell to jump off onto the velvet carpet. Killian sighed. That stain would never come out. But the Duke didn’t care. He was a passionate man, and Killian often had to step in to check him. Of late, he had become even more agitated. Seeing the Duke’s restless tension and nervous fidgeting, Killian concluded that now was not a good time to mention the ruined carpet.

  “Do you understand what this means, Killian?” the Duke said.

  “I believe I do, My Lord.” Killian had served the Duke of Saylen since the Duke was a boy. And Killian had grown old in his service. There was nothing that Killian didn’t know about him or what he had done and how the past haunted him. He pitied the man and admired him at the same time.

  How many people could stand by while their entire extended family was murdered? And how many could have navigated the dangerous post-coup years to become one of the most powerful men in the entire Kingdom of Coll, even though he was tainted with the blood of the old royal family of Hassani? The last of the family line—well, except for his sons and the lost prince who had disappeared into the vast heathland without a trace.

  The Duke had made himself invaluable to King Geric as a soldier, as a statesmen, and as a legitimizing force for the usurper line that ruled Coll. As the nephew of King Edward, the last Hassani king to sit on the throne, the Duke’s support of King Geric had been crucial in allowing Geric to secure his rule. That was the Duke’s genius, but would it be enough to see him through this last test of his craftiness and determination?

  “Who can I trust?” the Duke said. He raised his head to stare at Killian as if he expected his old steward to have some occult knowledge of other men’s intentions. Sometimes, even the Duke could look like a lost child. He passed a weary hand over his head.

  “Your son, My Lord?” Killian said.

  The Duke didn’t stir. He stared over Killian’s shoulder with a faraway expression. “My son,” he whispered. Then he turned his gaze back to Killian, his lips pinched tight in anguish. “I may have to kill him myself,” the Duke said.

  Chapter 2

  What does one do when he is awaiting the clash of armies? When one holds the key that could unleash a torrent of blood, a secret for which men were prepared to kill and to die? What does one do when he finds himself adrift in a storm of uncertainty about the most basic questions of existence—like one’s own identity?

  “You wait,” Brion of Wexford said to himself as he gazed out over the open prairie from the back of his Salassani war pony, Misty. She swished her tail at the biting flies that hovered over the prairie grass, seeking an easy meal. The grasses brushed against Brion’s legs as they rode toward the large outcrop in the distance. The clean air tasted of cedar and fresh-cut straw.

  Brion didn’t like waiting. It had already been several days since he had ridden into Wexford after rescuing his sister, Brigid, and his sweetheart, Finola, from slavery.

  Secrets existed to be uncovered, and he was going to dig as deep as he could to find out the truth. The big questions might be beyond his reach for the moment, but the old midwife knew more than she had said.

  “What?” Finola edged her horse up next to Misty. The horse nibbled at Misty’s ears, and Misty jerked her head away with an irritated grunt.

  Brion glanced at Finola. She wore her blonde hair pulled back, like she always did. And she still wore the loose shirt and trousers that she and Brigid had been given by the Salassani. They were the only clothes they had since Finola’s house had been burned and Brion’s and Brigid’s cabin had been ransacked. But Finola and Brigid agreed that they were less bothersome than a dress and more comfortable. Finola gave him that devilish smile that made him want to laugh.

  “You trained that horse to pick at Misty, didn’t you?” he said.

  Finola grinned. “You hear that, Brigid? Now he’s accusing me of corrupting a horse.”

  “He’s always been afraid of women,” Brigid said. Brion cast her an annoyed smirk. Brigid’s fiery-red hair played about her shoulders in the warm breeze. She was smiling.

  The sudden memory of the words the old midwife had spoken to them that first day they had returned from the heathland made Brion frown.

  “Your father comes for the ring, the papers, and the son he gave into Weyland’s keeping,” she had said.

  Weyland and Rosland had been Brion’s parents his entire life. Brigid had been his sister. Now, he couldn’t be
sure who any of them were. The midwife had insisted that Weyland’s and Rosland’s real son lay buried in a grave in the woods.

  Brion reached up to touch the golden ring that hung from a strap of leather around his neck. The ring bore the tiny image of the coat of arms of the Duke of Saylen—a stag in a teardrop shield. The midwife had said that his mother had been wearing the ring when she died.

  Finola must have seen his frown and the way he fingered the ring because she stopped smiling.

  “Do you think she’ll talk?” Finola asked.

  “She’s crazy,” Brigid said. “She’s lived alone in that dirty cave for at least twenty years.”

  “If you think she’s crazy,” Brion said, “why did you insist on talking to her?”

  “Because you’re never going to give this up until she admits that she made up that whole story about the four babies.” Brigid slapped a large, biting fly that landed on her arm.

  “I don’t know,” Finola said. “She didn’t sound crazy to me.”

  “So you think Brion should run off into the heathland again looking for some lost prince?” Brigid asked with an angry wave of her hand.

  Finola winked at Brigid. “Admit it,” she said. “You’re just grumpy because Emyr hasn’t come rushing back to your arms.” Finola gave her a wicked grin. “Maybe he came across some fancy, city girl in Dunfermine that he likes better.”

  Brigid grunted and kicked her horse into a canter, leaving Finola and Brion behind.

  Brion laughed and glanced up at the mid-summer sun that now rode high in a clear, blue sky. It warmed his face. The wind tousled his hair. Despite the uncertainty and the worry, it was good to be out on the land again, riding through the tall, prairie grass—to feel it brush against his legs, to hear it sigh and rustle as the horses passed through it, to smell the warm earth and the dry grass.

  Their wild dash through the heathland pursued by Salassani and Dunkeldi now seemed like a distant memory, maybe just a horrible nightmare. Brion flexed his right hand. The injury he had received to his sword arm still ached occasionally. A few days of resting, setting the vandalized cabin in order, and waiting for Neahl to return or for Redmond and Emyr to come from the city of Dunfermine had restored their strength. But Brion was getting anxious. He needed to do something.

  The rocky outcrop where the old midwife lived stood out of the rolling landscape to peer over the scraggly oak and beech trees that huddled close about its base. Brigid reined her horse to a stop and waited for them to catch up.

  “Her cave is around here somewhere,” Brion said. They dismounted and plunged into the shadows of the trees on foot. Brion’s sword slapped against this leg. The scent of wood smoke filled the air.

  “Hello,” Brion yelled. The trees swallowed the sound.

  “Over here,” Brigid called. She stood on a narrow trail, waving to them. They stumbled down the path over the rocks and roots. The constant smell of wood smoke told them they were near. They passed under a rock overhang, and there it was. A dark hole yawned in the black rock. Little rivulets of water slicked over the stone, leaving shiny trails. A thin cloud of white smoke drifted leisurely through the opening to disappear into the leafy canopy.

  “Hello,” Brion called again.

  No one answered.

  “I don’t think she’s home,” Finola said.

  Brigid stepped past them. “I’m going in,” she said.

  “Hang on,” Brion said.

  Brigid spun to face him. “I want answers, and I want them now,” she said.

  “Brigid—” he began.

  “I’m going in.” Brigid spun and disappeared into the cave. Brion and Finola followed.

  The cave smelled of human filth and something else that made Brion wrinkle his nose. He found Brigid standing in the half-light of the cave beside the smoking embers of a fire. Pots, pans, and moldy, wooden boxes were stacked all about in no apparent order. The old woman seemed to be reclining on a pile of rags. Her bare feet poked out from under the ragged cloak and skirt, stark white against the dark earth. Her cracked and holey boots stood beside the pile of rags as if she had just taken them off to massage her feet. But her head dropped forward at an awkward, unnatural angle.

  “Is she . . .” Finola breathed into Brion’s ear.

  Then Brion saw the wet stain that soaked her front. He recognized the smell that had bothered him when they first entered. It was death.

  Brion drew his sword and pushed Finola behind him. “Brigid!” he said. His voice carried a note of warning.

  Brigid drew her knife. The cave wasn’t large, but they couldn’t’ be sure that the murderer wasn’t lurking in the shadows. Brion stepped forward to search the cave. He found a small chamber at the back that apparently served as the old lady’s sleeping chamber.

  “No one’s here,” he said.

  “She hasn’t been dead long,” Brigid said.

  “That’s why we need to get clear of here,” Brion said, trying to shepherd them toward the entrance.

  “Wait.” Brigid bent and retrieved a slip of charred paper that had fallen from the fire. She held it up.

  “Anything on it?” Brion asked.

  Brigid peered at it. “It’s part of a ledger,” she said. “Whoa.” She glanced at Brion with wide eyes. “It says the Duke paid her ‘thirty gold coins for delivery and “burial.”’ That’s a fortune.”

  “Whose burial?” Finola asked.

  “Can’t tell,” Brigid said. “That part is burned.”

  “Okay, bring it with you,” Brion said, still anxious to get far away from the cave. He had come looking for answers, not a fight. And he didn’t want to get trapped in the cave. Brion motioned for the girls to wait while he inspected the ground in front of the cave. He bent to examine a set of footprints.

  “Boots,” he said. “New and probably expensive. No one around here wears boots like this.”

  “How do you figure that?” Finola asked.

  “Sharp edge to the sole and no wear on the heel,” he said. “The shape is weird, and they have a complicated stitching pattern. Not normal.” Brion stood. “Let’s get out of here.”

  There might be only one set of bootprints at the mouth of the cave, but for all he knew, there could be an entire band of men watching them.

  * * *

  “Should we tell the headman?” Finola asked as they rode side-by-side back toward the cabin.

  Brion considered. “How do we prove that we didn’t do it?”

  “Nobody will care anyway,” Brigid said. “To them she’s just a crazy, old woman.”

  “Midwives learn secrets,” Brion said. “She tried to burn that page for a reason. Maybe whoever has been trying to have us all killed found out about her.”

  “It was Seamus,” Finola said.

  Brion gave Finola a surprised glance. “What?”

  “Seamus heard what she said to us in the village,” Finola said.

  “He wouldn’t do something like that,” Brion said.

  Seamus had been his friend since they had run around naked on hot, summer days in their little, bare feet. The midwife had always been a fixture of the village. She seldom drew attention to herself—just haunted the margins of whatever was going on. People tolerated her because they needed her. She was good at what she did, and she had a special skill with herbs. No one local would have hurt her.

  “I’m just saying,” Finola said, “that he’s the only one who knew what she said to us.”

  “Which would mean that as long as we stay here, we’re making it easy for whoever is after us,” Brigid said.

  “It’s the Duke,” Brion whispered as the sudden realization hit him. “He wants the ring and the papers. He’s searching for them. If the King found out what he did, he’d be executed.”

  “You think the Duke had her killed?” Finola asked.

  “Who else would know about her?”

  This realization sobered them. The bright sky seemed to darken. Brion had wanted to forget that they were bei
ng hunted, that Weyland had left him a secret about a lost prince who had survived the coup eighteen years ago, that Brion had promised Weyland to see it through.

  “Why did she put quotation marks around the word ‘burial?’” Brigid asked.

  “Did she?” Finola said.

  “Yep.”

  “No idea,” Brion said.

  “Well, what do we do now?” Finola asked.

  Brion glanced at each of them and patted Misty’s neck. “There’s always the grave,” he said.

  “No.” Brigid’s voice was sharp, and Brion twisted in the saddle to stare at her.

  “I thought you didn’t believe her,” he said.

  Brigid pursed her lips and furrowed her brow. “You can’t just dig up a baby’s grave,” she said.

  Brion shrugged. “It’s the only way to find out if she was telling the truth,” he said.

  Finola scowled. “I’m with Brigid on this one. I’ve seen enough dead bodies to last me a lifetime. I don’t want to have nightmares about a baby skeleton.”

  Brion checked the sarcastic reply that came to his lips. He knew how sensitive Finola was about little children and how adults treated them. He didn’t want to unleash her fury.

  “I’ll go by myself then,” he said.

  Chapter 3

  Lara stood up from the washbasin over which she bent. Twice before she had experienced that sudden knowledge that the world was going to shift under her feet. It came to her the day she discovered that Redmond, the man she loved, had left the island and abandoned her and their unborn child. She felt it again that day beside the river hours before the Taurini attacked, leaving her for dead while they carried away her only child, Evan, into slavery or death.

  Lara stretched her back to ease the knotted muscles and listened to the sounds of her nieces and nephews playing somewhere in the house. She draped the dripping shirt over the scrub board, wiped her hands on her apron, and strode through the adjoining room into the hallway to the front door. She pulled it open and stepped out into the street.