Anne Bishop - The House of Gaian

Morag went back to bed and sank into restless, but dreamless, sleep.

Liam rubbed his hands over his face, then leaned back in his chair to stare at the sheet of paper on his desk.

No matter how he tried to look at the situation, it always came out the same: Willowsbrook had six guards who served under the village magistrate. Six men who were trained in weapons and fighting to protect the village and surrounding farms. Six.

His father had thought it extravagant to have so many guards for a village the size of Willowsbrook. In a way, the old baron had been right. It did seem an excessive number of men to handle the occasional drunken brawl on market day and to make sure arguments between neighbors were brought before the magistrate instead of having something small escalate through acts of petty vengeance into violence. Now . . .

How could he protect his people with only six guards? If he added his gamekeeper and the two men under him, that gave him three more men who were skilled with a bow. Not enough. Not nearly enough if the Inquisitors gathered an army to crush the barons who wouldn't yield to their view of the world.

He could ask Breanna's kin to stand with his people. The men now living in the Old Place who were skilled with a bow would double the fighting force, and a couple of them even had some skill with a sword. But that would leave the Old Place, and the women there, vulnerable if the enemy had enough men to split their forces, one half keeping his fighters occupied while the other went to devastate the Old Place.

He could command the magistrates in every village in the county he ruled to send him half their compliment of guards. That would swell the ranks of fighters, but it also would leave those villages with little protection, and the additional men still wouldn't be enough, not when every baron who supported the Inquisitors could gather as many men and combine them into an army.

Great Mother, what am I supposed to do? How can I protect my people, my friends, my family? How can I —

A footman burst into the room. "There's a rider coming! Coming fast. Sloane thinks it's Squire Thurston's son."

Liam bolted from the room and rushed to the open front door, where Sloane, his butler, watched the rider galloping toward the manor house. Squire Thurston's oldest son was one of the gentry youths who were riding the roads these days to keep watch around the village and outlying farms. They'd all been given strict orders not to approach any strangers. If they saw anyone, they were to ride to the nearest home and give a warning before riding on to warn the magistrate.

He stepped outside, Sloane following him. If Thurston's son was heading here, that meant the manor was the closest house. And that meant. . .

The youth galloped up to them and reined in hard, setting his horse on its haunches.

"Riders coming!" he shouted, despite being almost on top of Liam.

"How many?" Liam asked, trying to ignore the heat that washed through his body.

"I counted twenty men and two coaches."

"Any idea which way they came from?"

"The village . . . I think."

Which meant the magistrate was already aware of the strangers and would summon the guards. Not that they would arrive in time to do anything but bury the dead.

"Should I tell my father?" the youth asked.

Liam hesitated a moment, then shook his head. "Ride to the Old Place. Warn them. If we're attacked here, they'll be next."

"Yes, sir." The youth applied his heels, and his horse galloped off in the direction of the bridge that crossed Willow's Brook.

Liam turned to Sloane. "Have the bucket of wood brought out. And send one of the footmen to find the gamekeeper and tell him he's needed at the house—and tell him to come armed."

"Yes, Baron."

As Sloane hurried into the house to relay orders, Liam saw Flint, his stable master, striding toward him, the man's face flushed with anger.

"Saddle as many horses as you can," Liam said as soon as Flint got close enough to hear him. "Get the horses hitched to the farm wagon as well. Make sure one of the grooms stays with the wagon to drive it."

If his servants had to run, they had a better chance to escape on horseback and reach the Old Place than they would on foot. Most of his footmen could sit a horse, even if none of them rode well. Each one could take a maid up behind him. The older servants and the young ones could go in the wagon.

Flint didn't stop and return to the stable to follow orders. Instead, he kept coming toward Liam, finally stopping when there was a man's length between them. His hands were clenched, and the look on his face was close to hatred.

"This is your doing," Flint said harshly. "The baron wouldn't have put us in danger this way."

" I am the baron."

"You've got the title, but you're not half the man your father was. You never will be. You're nothing but a witch's brat that she tricked the baron into believing was his."

Liam stared at Flint, who had been, and always would be, his father's man. The urge to strike Flint for the slurs against his mother was strong, but the heat beneath his skin was getting more intense, warning him that he'd unthinkingly drawn too much power from the branch of fire and he couldn't be sure, if he raised his hand now, that he could control what he'd summoned.

"Get off my land," Liam said quietly, fiercely. "I don't want you near my family. I don't want you near my people. Get out."

"And go where now that you've brought the enemy down on us?" Flint demanded, fear now coating his anger.

"You can obey my orders and stay until it's safe to leave, or you can leave now."

"Bastard!"

Liam nodded. "Which should prove to you that I truly am my father's son."

Flint looked stunned for a moment.

Liam saw the first riders turn off the main road onto the long drive that led to the manor house. "Make your choice, Flint. They're coming."

Flint's breathing became harsh as he watched more riders turning onto the drive. Then he ran back to the stables.

A footman came out of the house, grunting a little as he placed the large brass bucket next to Liam. Normally, the bucket sat on the drawing room hearth, filled with kindling. Now it was filled with chunks of wood and thick sticks long enough to be used as torches.

"Get back in the house," Liam said, watching the riders approach.

The footman didn't have to be told a second time.

Horses feared fire. If he threw burning pieces of wood at them, they might bolt, might even throw their riders, might buy him enough time for the servants to get away before one of the men put an arrow into him—or, he added honestly, before he set himself on fire.

Four guards rode in front of five men who wore gentry clothing. The rest of the guards rode to the side and behind the two coaches. The road dust kicked up by the horses' hooves made it difficult to identify the men until the front guards swung their horses to the side, and Liam found himself facing Baron Donovan. The baron was an acquaintance, someone whose company he had occasionally enjoyed when they'd attended the same parties or dined together at the club.

What made Liam's heart sink was that Donovan had been the only other baron besides Padrick who had given him any acknowledgment after his impassioned speech at the barons' council in Durham—the speech that set the Inquisitors against him.

Why was the other baron here?

Donovan dismounted. So did the other four gentry men and half the guards. Liam recognized the four men as barons he'd seen in the council chambers, but he couldn't remember their names or what counties they ruled.

"Baron Liam," Donovan said, his voice courteous yet wary.