“She is the greatest of all whores,” Fantin told her. “She must die—’tis God’s will. She must be purged from this earth, just as Mal Verne must be, just as his slut of a wife was, and as you shall be!” Red veins burst in the whites of his eyes as he screamed these last words at her, and Madelyne struggled to keep from bursting into tears.
He whirled from her, and Madelyne’s heart froze. If he saw that Tricky was near the door and the stairs… Nay, he did not! He whirled back around with the same bloodied sword that had sent the priest to his death. She recoiled when he rose toward her, the silver blade glinting and dully blooded in a macabre pattern, and drew it back to swing.
She tensed, closing her eyes.
“Master! The girl is escaping!”
Madelyne’s eyes snapped open in time to see the blade swipe past her, slicing harmlessly through her skirts, and clashing into the stones behind her.
“After her!” Fantin shouted at his man, who had already mounted the stairs. He turned to glare at Madelyne. “Do you not find hope in this,” he sneered, “for she will not make it to your husband. If indeed he lurks about, she will find no way to allow him into the keep. You are safe here with me,” he added, and laughed…that self-same laugh that came with his madness.
He sank to his knees, there in front of her, and began to pray.
She had never heard anything more terrifying.
At last…at last.
Gavin heard the faint sound of scraping on the inside of the door. He need say naught, for his men saw the straightening of his spine and the tensing of his arms. They shifted quickly to their places.
The door eased open and they remained in the shadows, waiting.
“My lord!” a voice hissed.
’Twas unexpectedly a female voice, and Gavin moved, forgetting all caution. “Tricky?” he started, leaping through the open doorway, followed by his men.
Inside the gateway, he found himself surrounded by swords and chain mail.
Despite the surprise, Gavin did not falter, did not hesitate. He exploded.
His blade flashed and gleamed, striking out with all the strength he’d harbored these last days—these days of holding himself in check, of hell on earth, since Maddie had been taken. These men waiting him could be no match for his rage and need, regardless of their numbers. He would have them all for daring to stand in his way.
Gavin was barely aware of his own men behind and about him, brandishing weapons seeking to be as quick and deadly as his own, slicing through mail and flesh and clanging against more metal. His world was a blur, a mass of steel, noise, cries and grunts—yet Gavin saw with clarity every movement he made, every step and thrust of the blade, every shift and dodge and swing. They brought him closer to his goal.
He didn’t know how many men he sliced or stabbed, but when at last no one raised a blade to him, he paused only for a moment, panting, yet not fatigued, and looked around.
Jube and two other of his men stood to one side, watching with wide eyes. They looked as though they’d been there for some time, watching some exhibition or contest. Their eyes fastened upon Gavin as though they weren’t certain ’twas truly he…and Tricky, who’d been held prisoner by one of the Tricourten men at the beginning of the battle, now peeked from behind splayed fingers, peering from around a corner.
“What ails you?” Gavin shouted, infuriated by their immobility. “Why do you stand and stare? We must find Madelyne. Tricky—where is she kept?”
His roar prodded them into movement. It was only as Gavin started to follow the little maid and had to step over arms and legs and heads and feet—none of which remained attached to their respective bodies, but were scattered all over the ground—did he realize he had been afflicted with his own madness.
Fantin rose to his feet in front of Madelyne, still mouthing words of supplication. The sounds from above had made it known that some battle raged beyond the rafters of the ceiling.
His pleading, groveling, praising sent squirrelly shivers down Madelyne’s spine and they coiled like snakes in the pit of her stomach. It was eerie and nauseating the way he continued to pray and implore God to help him, to show him the way, to give him the Stone.
He faced her, and what she saw there made her knees buckle as all strength drained from her body. His countenance glowed…shone with joy and light and fervor, even as the light in his eyes gleamed and his mouth continued to dribble the tiny trickle of wetness from one corner. His mind had truly gone, and madness—religious madness—blossomed within him.
What strength had he now? All the strength that comes with righteousness, and belief and faith. Madelyne knew the strength that came with belief. And when she saw it lining his face, she feared it.
Fantin flitted about the room, his lips still moving, moving bowls and jugs and jars, gripping his sword. He found a large jug and removed the cork, trickling its contents along the edge of the floor, along in front of Madelyne, around Seton’s prone body and to the feet of Clem, who remained bound against another wall.
She smelled the rancid scent of pig fat, and felt its greasiness splash against her skirts, and watched in horror as a gleeful Fantin seized one of the many sconces along the wall.
“You and your father shall burn on earth as you will burn in hell,” he told her, pivoting about as he swiped the torch through the air, leaving an arc of smoke in its wake. Fantin dropped the torch and the grease eagerly sucked the flames into its trail, instantly billowing rancid smoke into the air, and seeping along toward her.
“May God be with you,” Fantin shouted gleefully, dashing on light feet toward the stairs after saluting her with his sword.
Madelyne watched in horror as he disappeared up the steps, and the flames began to eat the wooden trestle tables and the tapestries that covered the walls. The smoke grew thicker, the flames closer and hotter.
She pulled in vain at the irons that still imprisoned her arms. Her fingers had long turned to ice from loss of blood and the dampness of the dungeon-laboratory. Seton remained unconscious at her feet, and Clem, across the room, struggled with his own bonds.
The flames burned higher, and closer, and Madelyne felt the heat as it struggled toward her skirts. She kicked out and to the side, frantic, whipping her gown around her legs, trying to move away from the pools of grease that would soon be consumed by fire. There was naught she could do.
Gavin.
He would come soon. He must come soon.
She, too, had the strength of faith and belief.
A door—the door to which Tricky had been leading him—flew open, and Gavin suddenly was face to face with his nemesis.
“De Belgrume!” he cried, leaping at the man who’d emerged from a stairwell.
The man was prepared for him, and swung his blade as Gavin moved. Heat sliced down his arm, and Gavin shouted with rage and victory. Fantin had drawn first blood, but Gavin would take the last.
With a swift movement, Fantin slammed the door behind him and whirled, swinging his sword again. This time, Gavin easily dodged the thrust, and returned with his own blade, slamming against the man’s side.
“Your whore burns below,” Fantin gasped, feinting and then thrusting in one fluid movement. “You must go through me to reach her, but you cannot get there in time.”
He laughed, then, easily, as though he’d had the greatest jest, and his blade met Gavin’s. Chill raced up Gavin’s back. He’d never felt such burning rage and taste for blood, but the man before him had a calmness…an easy humor, a glow, that bespoke of some inner strength—much like that which had attracted Gavin to the man’s daughter.
Sweat ran in his eyes, and Gavin dashed it away as he rammed toward Fantin. The other man raised his sword and their blades clashed, pressing against each other as if frozen in mid-air, each man pushing with every bit of need and will he possessed. At last, the metals slid, and the swords moved, freeing them from the stalemate. Gavin didn’t waste the moment by drawing back. Instead, he whirled, kicked, and thrust all at once, and suddenly, Fantin was away from the door, shrieking in unexpected pain.
Gavin propelled himself toward it, just as his opponent lunged forward. With barely enough time to block the
