Wrath of Lions

CHAPTER 25

The door to Matthew’s bedroom burst open, and he sat up with a start. His wife, Catherine, yelped, gathering the blankets about her neck. The torches had gone out, and in the light from the doorway he could see a hulking black shadow. Matthew snatched his dagger from the table beside his featherbed and got up on his knees. He was vulnerable in his nakedness, and he cursed himself for letting his guard down.

Those bastards, he thought. I knew the Conningtons wouldn’t stay true to their word.

“Hey, boss,” the shadow said. “You awake?”

Matthew sighed, his heart still rocking like a skiff in a violent windstorm. He placed a soothing hand on Catherine’s shoulder. At least their children were in their own rooms this night and wouldn’t be frightened.

“I am now,” he grumbled. “What are you doing here, Bren?”

“It’s happening.”

“What’s happening?”

“You know. That thing we weren’t supposed to talk about.”

Matthew groaned, rubbed his eyes.

“Now?” he asked.

The shadow nodded.

“Shit.”

“Matthew, what is he talking about?” asked Catherine, her voice still husky from sleep.

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” He turned to his bodyguard. “And Moira? Is she awake?”

Bren lit a tinderstick and touched it to the torch on the wall. He shook his head.

“Hasn’t come out of her room. Hopefully it stays that way.”

Under different circumstances, Matthew might have found Bren’s fear of the waifish Moira humorous. Now it just filled him with dread. The woman was a brilliant fighter and had been his willing captive for nearly three months now. Though they had grown close, he didn’t know how she would react if she found out he’d been lying to her the entire time. The thought petrified him.

Matthew rose from bed, not bothering to hide his nakedness from his bodyguard as he threw on a clean tunic and breeches from the bureau on the far side of the room. A half-full carafe of brandy sat on the desk beside the bureau, and he took a long pull from it before he dressed. The liquid burned going down, swelling his tongue and making him cough, but at least it took the edge off his nerves.

“Well, let’s not delay the inevitable,” he said with a sigh. He turned to Catherine. “Dear, sleep in Ryan’s bed for the night. I’ll see you when you wake in the morning.”

“Matthew, you’re scaring me,” Catherine said, letting the blankets fall, exposing her body from the waist up. Even after birthing five children, she was a resplendent woman. Her chestnut hair was wavy and as smooth as satin, her flesh almost flawless, her gray eyes hauntingly beautiful. The only parts of her that bore the signs of childbirth were her sagging breasts and long, slender nipples; five children sucking vehemently on them for sustenance had taken its inevitable toll. Matthew hummed quietly as he looked down at her.

“Worry not, my dear,” he said, tying his belt tightly around his waist. “All will be well. I simply have business to attend to.”

“You always have business to attend to.”

Bren chuckled behind him.

“The price of marrying a merchant,” Matthew said with a grin. He waved his hand at Bren, and the bodyguard left the chamber. Matthew followed closely behind him, his fingers dancing over the hilt of the dagger wedged into his belt. He knew the blade would be useless to him-his true talents resided in other areas-but the feel of its cold steel helped reassure him nonetheless.

The sound of wailing reached his ears the moment they began to descend the stairwell. By the time they reached the ground level of the estate, three floors down, the sound was akin to the shrieks of a feral cat defending its alley.

Bren led him around the corner and into the foyer. His six personal guards stood before the great bookcase on the northern wall, their faces awash with confusion. They kept peering at the bookcase cloaking the secret passage. Down here in the foyer, the wailing was so loud that it was as if the wailer were in the next room. He silently cursed himself for not packing cotton around the hidden entrance to the Brennan Estate’s underground refuge.

“What’s happening, sir?” asked one of the guards, a young, blond man named Curtis. “What’s behind the bookcase?”

“None of your damn business,” snapped Bren.

Matthew placed a hand on his bodyguard’s shoulder.

“Calm down, Bren.” He turned to face the other guards. “I cannot tell you,” he said, “and you have not heard a sound. All went as usual, there were no disturbances, and you heard no pained cries. Understood?”

All six nodded, though they still appeared confused.

“Uh, boss?” said Bren.

“The foyer is to be the last stop each of you make. Do not return for an hour. I want the rookery thoroughly examined, and I want my bedchambers ransacked for potential threats. And please make sure to hang heavy drapes over all the windows to ensure that any possible sounds are dampened for those outside.”

“Boss!”

Matthew turned on Bren.

“What?” he barked.

Bren gestured with his chin, and Matthew followed his gaze. He froze at the sight of a spent-looking Moira dressed in wrinkled nightclothes, her dyed hair matted on one side and sticking up on the other. Penetta, one of Matthew’s maids, lingered behind her, looking just as sleepy-eyed as the former Lady Crestwell did. Penetta’s sheer gown was crumpled and damp, her auburn hair disheveled. Matthew wondered what they were doing together at this time of night, but discarded the question nearly as soon as he thought it. That Moira was standing in the foyer while the screeching issued from behind the bookcase made any other consideration moot.

No one said a word, and Moira’s eyes narrowed. Her gaze shifted from Matthew to Bren, to the guards, and then settled on the bookcase. She took a deep breath, puffing out her chest.

“Go upstairs,” she whispered. Penetta shuffled from side to side as if she hadn’t heard. Moira turned to her, grabbed her by the front of her threadbare nightclothes, and pulled her close.

“Go…upstairs.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the petite young woman replied. She curtseyed, though the pleasantry looked ridiculous given her outfit, and then disappeared around the corner. Her soft footfalls could barely be heard beneath the wails, which were now coming in shorter spurts.

Matthew held Moira’s gaze.

“You all have your instructions,” he told his guards. “Now get to it.”

The guards hustled from the room, heading in opposite directions. Bren remained where he was. Matthew could hear the clink of the guards’ chainmail, but he dared not take his eyes off Moira. When all fell silent save for the tormented cries, he finally blinked.

“What…is that?” asked Moira as yet another wail echoed off the thick stone walls.

Matthew swallowed hard, trying to remain strong. “It is nothing for you to concern yourself with, Moira. Go back to your room with Penetta. Do whatever it is you do with her.”

“No.” She breezed past him and Bren, heading straight for the bookcase. He made no move to stop her. The woman might be small and unarmed, but the way she carried herself made her seem deadlier than a lion’s jaws. Even Bren, big and rough as he was, gave her a wide berth.

Moira stopped before the bookcase, running her fingers over the tomes stacked within. She then stepped to the side and rapped on the wall. A dull thud sounded each time her knuckles struck the wood.

“It’s hollow,” Moira said. The iciness in her voice made Matthew shiver. He had met her sister Avila on a couple of occasions-Karak’s bitch as many called her. Right then Moira sounded very much like her.

“It is,” said Matthew.

“What’s behind it?”

“A staircase.”

“Who is behind it?”

“I’d rather not say. You should go back to bed.”

She glared at him, her dyed hair hanging in front of her blue eyes.

“Open it.”

Bren tried to protest, but Matthew simply shook his head and stepped forward. The secret was out, and there was nothing the two of them could do about it. He went to the side of the bookcase and wrapped his fingers around the back ridge. Finding the catch, he slid it down. A loud clank sounded, and then he pressed his shoulder into the massive wooden obstruction and shoved. It slid along the wall before coming to an abrupt halt, revealing a three-foot-wide black portal. The screams from down below heightened twofold.

Moira went to shove past him, but he gathered enough courage to stop her, placing a palm firmly against her chest. “I go first,” he said.

She stared at him blankly, making no response. He turned away and descended the dark stairwell.

The estate refuge had been built by his father, Elbert, thirty-eight years ago in the aftermath of Karak’s departure from Neldar, when corruption and thievery were on the rise. The refuge had been intended as a safe haven for his family should the rambling packs of wrongdoers band together and attempt to use violence and murder to purloin the family’s wealth, a possibility which had thankfully never been realized. It was a single large room, as wide as the estate itself, with a hatch beneath it leading to an underground stream that dumped directly into the ocean. In theory, those who were holed up inside could use the stream as a last resort to flee from danger, but in practice it had been used for the opposite purpose. Over the years Matthew had used the underground stream as a way to have young maidens snuck in, so he could enjoy their carnal pleasures in private. He thought about how the screams from the refuge could be heard throughout the estate’s first floor and cringed. Had Catherine been able to hear his trysts?

Fuck me sideways, he thought, leading Moira farther down the stairs.

The refuge’s current resident had been snuck in three months ago. She had lived down there in relative luxury, while the rest of the world went on above her as if she didn’t exist. How Matthew wished that that were still the case.

He came to the bottom of the stairwell, where a pair of torches bordered a thick oak door, and rapped five times. He felt Moira lingering behind him, her breath on his neck. It would have been easy for her to plunge a knife into his back if she had one on her. The screams came once more, bouncing off the narrow stone walls on either side of him, and he jumped.

A series of scratching sounds came from the other side of the door, like rats scurrying in the walls. In reply Matthew knocked twice more, then ran his fingernails across the wood, ending with two more knocks. The heavy clunk of a bolt being undone came next, and then the door to the refuge swung open.

He walked into an expansive and elegantly furnished space, well lit by a great many torches and candelabras. The floor was adorned with brightly colored rugs. To the left, there were a table and chairs, a washbasin, and a series of shelves displaying stylish glassware and plates. To the right, concealed by a curtain, was the privy, which dumped into the stream below. On the far side of the room, opposite the door, was a hearth with a lit fire, its smoke disappearing into the estate’s main flue. In front of it was a line of five beds, a huge four-poster one in the center. There, atop the bed, lay the source of the incessant screaming.

Matthew heard Moira gasp behind him, but the three individuals surrounding the wailing woman did not turn toward the sound. They were too intent on the task at hand.

He took a few steps closer, studying the naked, sweating body of Rachida Gemcroft. Her breasts were huge and her midsection even more so. Rachida’s eyes were closed, her face awash in agony. The young man propping her up brushed back the sodden clumps of her curly black hair, while the two in front of her, an older gray-haired woman and a girl who looked no older than fifteen, each braced one of her knees on her shoulder. The older woman was Gertrude Shrine, but Matthew knew the other two only by their first names: the young man was Raxler and the young woman, Shimmea. He had brought them in to care for Rachida months ago, and they’d lived in this refuge with her ever since.

“The baby is crowning, my dear,” said Gertrude. She pressed harder against Rachida’s leg, stretching her nethers as she forced it back. Rachida hollered in pain.

“You’re hurting her!” cried a desperate voice.

Matthew didn’t have time to turn around before something slammed him from behind, nearly knocking him to the floor. Moira darted past him, rushing to Rachida’s side. She grabbed Shimmea by the hair and yanked her back, then drove Gertrude away with an open palm to the chest. Next she turned on Raxler, fist drawn back as taut as a bowstring.

“My love,” Rachida said through clenched teeth. “Stop, now.” If she was surprised to see Moira, she didn’t show it.

“But-”

“But nothing, my love. It’s coming. Our baby is coming. It’s comiiiiing!” She threw back her head and screamed.

Gertrude shoved Moira out of the way, taking her place once more.

“Dear, we know what we’re doing. Please stand aside.”

She was joined by Shimmea, who hesitantly returned to her position.

“It will be soon, milady,” Gertrude said. “Breathe deliberately, in and out, in and out, and wait for the next one to come.” Rachida did as she was told, while the two women pushed against her legs. Soon the contraction came, and Rachida screamed louder than before, her every muscle tensing. Her face flushed red, the muscles in her neck and jaws so tight that Matthew feared she might somehow injure herself. When she calmed down, her eyes opened, and her gaze immediately found Moira. She reached out the hand that was not busy squeezing Raxler’s fingers. When Moira cautiously approached, Rachida took her hand, brought it to her lips, and kissed it before another spasm began. Leaning against the bed, Moira fell to her knees, her expression one of surprised alarm.

“Disgusting,” Bren said, staring with wide eyes at Rachida’s crotch.

“Then don’t watch,” Matthew told him. “I never did for my five, and for good reason.”

Bren grunted. “Just look at that bed,” he said. “Blood all over it. Looks like the mattress will need replacing.”

“Now you’re disgusted by a bit of blood, eh, Bren? To think I hired you for your skill at spilling blood.”

Bren waved him off.

“This is different and you know it. I’m going upstairs for a drink. Come get me when it’s over.”

An hour later, the room was filled with the gurgling of an infant. A baby boy with a thatch of curly red hair emerged into the world, screaming just as his mother had been. The birthing chord was cut, the afterbirth expelled, and afterward Gretchen, Raxler, and Shimmea set about cleaning the mess, dropping soiled blankets into a canvas bag, and mopping up the afterbirth. Rachida and Moira reclined together on the red-streaked bed while the new mother fed the infant from her swollen nipple. As he watched the scene unfold, in a moment of ill-timed humor Matthew thought the child might be the luckiest male in all of Neldar.

Matthew sat at the table, fidgeting. Feeling like an invader, he tried not to watch. The two women were so enamored with the babe, he thought he could leave without either noticing him.

Just then Moira glanced at him, and it seemed as though a whole new person took over her body. She rolled off the bed as if fleeing a fire and raced toward him, snatching a sharp and wicked-looking instrument from Gertrude’s bag. Matthew lunged from his chair, but Moira was a raging ball of hate, her shoulders rising and falling, her eyes throwing invisible daggers of death as she stalked forward. Gertrude, Raxler, and Shimmea backed against the wall.

Moira stopped a few feet in front of him. “I trusted you,” she said, her voice barbed. “She was here, and you didn’t tell me.”

“I couldn’t,” Matthew insisted, his heart pounding.

“Bullshit!”

“I’m not lying. Telling you would have meant risking everything I’m hoping to gain.”

Moira’s hands shook with her anger.

“Gain?” she asked. “What did you hope to gain by keeping me from her? Tell me, you bastard!”

“I’m not the right target for your anger,” Matthew said, trying to keep calm. “These were Petyr’s orders-strict orders, I might add. I’m sticking my neck out by hiding her here, and you as well. Try and remember that before you stab me.”

Moira looked back and forth between him and Rachida. The other woman looked exhausted, only halfway aware of what was taking place.

“But why?” asked Moira. There were tears in her eyes, but her hardness never abandoned her. She hovered there before him, swaying.

Matthew glanced to Rachida, and she nodded to him. He took a careful step closer to Moira, his hands raised to show that he meant no harm.

“Do not think I enjoyed keeping you in the dark,” he said softly. “You have talents, Moira, talents you proved your first night in Port Lancaster. Bren and I would have been slaughtered without your intercession.” He laughed and shook his head. “Small as you are, you are better with a blade than any warrior I’ve ever seen. You make even Bren look like a clumsy oaf.”

Moira cocked her head, giving Rachida a look. “That answers nothing. When did you return? Why?”

“We had it all planned,” Rachida said, shifting the mewling baby from one breast to the other. She sounded tired, very tired. “I took a raft back to shore, and then Matthew’s men brought me here. As for the reason.…There are no settlements on the Isles of Gold. I couldn’t help tame the land and build the township, not in my condition. And you know that our fellow renegades are not the brightest bunch, especially in the healing arts. Antar and Lommy both died in Karak’s attack on Haven, leaving only a gaggle of farmers and brigands capable of no more than administering crim oil to livestock or putting down a dog. Given the nature of my pregnancy, given the magics required for Patrick’s seed to find purchase, I feared something might go wrong. What would happen if there were no healers or midwives to assist me?”

At the mention of the name Patrick, Moira’s fists clenched. Matthew had no idea who the man was, though he didn’t find it shocking to learn that the child was not Peytr’s. And the look on Rachida’s face was one he easily recognized. The woman was stalling, trying to change the subject.

“And they are better?” asked Moira, jabbing her thumb at the three who cowered against the wall.

“They are,” said Matthew. “Gertrude is the greatest physician in the realm, the fourth generation of her family to practice medicine.”

“I am,” Gertrude said, stepping away from the wall. “And I have been here with Rachida for almost three months. I’ve watched her progress, protected her, fed her the foods she needed to thrive, and offered her support. She has been in the best of hands, milady. Of that I can promise you.”

“But what would have happened if anything had gone wrong?” pleaded Moira. “You would have perished right beneath me, and I would never have known!”

“That’s not true,” said Rachida, shaking her head sadly.

“Another part of the deal,” added Matthew. “Should anything befall Rachida, should she die in childbirth or beforehand, you were to escort her body back to the Isles of Gold, with the child if possible.”

Rachida looked at her gravely. “We play a dangerous game, my love. The Conningtons are no friends to Peytr, as you well know. No matter how much he has lost, Peytr still holds deeds to the most promising and productive lands in Neldar and beyond. Once the war ends, the value of those holdings will be tremendous. The brothers knew that I was pregnant with his heir. Should they have discovered my presence here, they would have sought me out and killed us both.”

“And yet you trusted Bren?” Moira asked. “I was kept in the dark, but that idiot was allowed to know?”

“Bren may be a big dumb oaf, but he is as loyal as he is stupid, which he has proven time and again,” Matthew said. “Besides, the decision was Peytr’s, not mine. You’re more than welcome to scream at his face until your voice is hoarse.”

Moira began to pace, but her eyes kept finding their way back to Rachida and the baby.

“What I want to know,” she said, “is where do we go from here? Since the child was born without issue, are we free to flee to the islands…together?” Her gaze grew pleading as she stared at her love.

“No,” said Rachida. The sadness in her voice was palpable.

“Why not?”

Matthew gathered as much courage as he could and said, “Because Peytr’s debt is still not paid. He has my boats, my arms, my captains. I like him, just as I like you and Rachida, but I risked too much by helping him to go unrewarded. You are that reward, Moira. Even disregarding your skills, it gives me a great advantage to have the daughter of Clovis Crestwell as a hostage, especially one who has so publicly railed against her creator. The amount of leverage I could gain by presenting you to Karak as a trophy is worth its weight in gold.”

“You would never…”

“I wouldn’t, but there are many who would,” he shot back, trying to keep his voice strong. “It’s all posturing and position, and it must be done to ensure that Petyr and I behave as the gentlemen we pretend to be.”

Moira hardly looked convinced, but Rachida called her over.

“Come, my love, sit with us…sit with our son.” Moira crept across the room, tears in her eyes, and curled up in a ball beside the sublimely gorgeous daughter of Soleh Mori. Just watching the two of them broke Matthew’s heart, and he had to bite down on his tongue to keep from breaking down. It was truly unfair of him to make Moira say good-bye to the love of her life twice. He thought of his own past, of the way he’d railed against the authority and memory of his own father by marrying Catherine against his wishes. Had he been in Moira’s shoes…

Best not think on it, he told himself.

The door opened, and down came Bren.

“The screaming stopped,” he said, giving them all a weird look, as if confused by their tense expressions. “Figured that meant a good thing.”

“The baby is well,” Matthew said, slumping down at the table again. Bren joined him, and he nodded toward Moira, lowering his voice so he would not be overheard.

“How’d she take the news?” he asked.

“As well as expected. I almost died. Glad to have you at my side, you dumb ox.”

Bren shrugged.

“Wouldn’t have mattered. I’ll protect you from assassins, thieves, and cutthroats. When it comes to Moira Elren, you’re on your own.”

Matthew chuckled despite his dour mood.

“This never should have happened,” he said. “Our precautions were foolish and incomplete. We’ll need to keep a closer eye on the help who worked tonight, along with the various soldiers in the vicinity. Any one of them could leak word to the Conningtons in Riverrun, and while they might not know who the child is, Romeo or Cleo are smart enough to put it together.”

“Can’t change what’s been done,” Bren said. “But I’ll do what I can to make sure no loose lips are in this house. So what happens now, boss?”

Matthew sighed. “In two days, Rachida and her child will get on a ship and head to the islands.”

Bren pointed his chin at Gertrude and her helpers. “What about them?”

“Oh, them,” Matthew said, shaking his head. He leaned in and whispered into Bren’s ear. “Should word get back to Veldaren that we were harboring fugitives from Haven, particularly with that emissary on her way…”

Bren leaned back and looked him in the eyes. “You saying what I think you’re saying?”

He nodded. “Gertrude will accompany Rachida to the isles. As for the other two…well, Peytr was adamant that only one of them could join his wife. Something about having enough mouths to feed. And we can’t afford to have potential loose lips with secrets to tell. Just make it quick, would you? Painless.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

Matthew looked over at Gertrude, who was dictating to Shimmea on the other side of the room. The young girl jotted the words down on a piece of parchment, a smile on her face.

“And make sure no one finds the bodies,” he said.

“I’m not an idiot, boss.” Bren looked at the two supine women, who were doting on the now sleeping child. “I hope this is all worth it.”

Matthew leaned back in his chair. Peytr Gemcroft had offered him half the gold on the isles to ensure his heir was born, quietly, safely, and without anyone knowing. His desire to keep Moira in the dark had stemmed from a fear that the lovers would flee after the baby’s birth. Now that Moira knew, Matthew hoped they would not decide on such a foolish course of action. Because if Moira did decide she and Rachida were leaving the mansion, Matthew doubted all his house guards combined could prevent it from happening.

“Who knows if it will be in the end?” Matthew said, feeling far too tired to worry about it. “And don’t you have work to do?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Matthew stood up, bowed to all present, and left the room, with Bren right behind him. His heart hung heavy in his chest. The last words he heard before the door closed behind him were Rachida’s, answering a question posed by Raxler.

“His name is Patrick,” the gorgeous woman said, “after his father. His true father.”