by Amy Tolnitch
“She is a comely bit of a thing,” the man said defensively.
“So, Donninc kept her alive until he could get her somewhere to enjoy her. Why was no one watching to make sure she didn’t have the chance to run?”
“Tom had the first watch, your grace. We found him with his own dagger in his throat.”
“Convenient. Where is my brother?”
When the man’s gaze slid away, Aldrik knew Donninc had gone into hiding. Most likely, this quivering minion had no idea where.
Confirming his suspicion, the man shrugged. “I do not know, your grace. He sent me to deliver the news to you. That’s all I know.”
“What of the husband?”
“Got to be dead. My shot was true. We all saw the man fall.”
“Well, that is something at least.” Aldrik picked up a cup and twirled it in his hands. “I see I shall have to take care of this matter myself.” He allowed himself a thin smile. “Fortunately, I was smart enough not to depend on Donninc to accomplish the task to my satisfaction.” He waved a hand. “Get out.”
The man sidled to the door.
“One more thing. If you happen to see Donninc, tell him not to bother coming back. I have no use for fools and liars.”
After Donninc’s man left, Aldrik let out a growl of frustration. A simple task he’d set his brother to accomplish. It should have been easily done.
How he hated the girl. Hated the weakness she represented, hated her face, so much like her dam’s.
It would have been so easy to rid himself of her when she was at Kerwick. An accident on the stairs, a random attack by an unknown intruder, just the right amount of nightshade in her food? Yes, he’d thought of all those things each time he laid eyes on her.
Well, he still had a few weapons in his arsenal. While he would have liked to see the girl dead, banished and forgotten would have to suffice.
Either way, he would never give up Kindlemere.
Iosobal sat in her solar at Parraba surrounded by books, so frustrated even the sight of her beloved husband carrying honey cakes and sweet wine did not lighten her mood. Lugh sat down next to her and shoved some of the books aside to make room for the platter, ewer, and cups.
“I cannot find anything about Eikki.” She waved at hand at the tomes in disgust. “No reference to him, let alone how he became imprisoned in the crystal.”
Lugh rubbed his chin. “What of the cave? Are there more books there?”
She blinked and smiled. “Mayhap.” She snuggled close to him and laid her head against his firm shoulder. He put his arm around her and dropped a kiss on her forehead. “How did I gain the good fortune to have a man so wise?”
His chest moved beneath her cheek in a low chuckle. “Well, it was good fortune indeed. And luckily, I was aware of my great appeal enough to persist against your frightened efforts to push me away.”
“Arrogant man.”
“A lesser man would have fled the first time you leveled him with your Lady of Parraba look.”
“My what?” She laughed and gazed up at his face.
His green eyes twinkled down at her. “The one where you lift your chin and gaze at a person as if they are naught but a worthless insect unworthy of a moment of your time.”
“Oh.” Iosobal flushed, knowing he was right.
“Of course, with my great wisdom, I quickly grasped that ‘twas a defensive guise.”
She smoothed her fingers over the fine wool of his green tunic. “I would agree with you, but I fear ‘twould only fuel your arrogance.”
“Every time I look at you I am humbled, my lady wife.”
His solemn tone brought tears to her eyes. “ ’Tis I who should be humbled.”
Lugh gave a snort. “Enough of the love talk, wench. What say you we partake of a honey cake and a sip of wine before exploring your cave?”
“A fine idea.”
It took Giselle only a few days to feel very much like a prisoner, albeit a well-treated one. Her chamber was the only place she wasn’t watched. If she was in the solar working on Amice’s tapestry, either Amice or a maid would be sure to show up with apparently nothing to do but engage in idle chatter. If she went to the garden, a guard was sure to follow, hovering at a discreet distance that somehow managed to annoy her more than if he’d simply walked with her. Michel, the stable groom, had taken to following her about the stables like a lost puppy looking for its dam. Her attempts to ride Angel, who had thankfully found his way back to Falcon’s Craig, were so closely scrutinized she eventually gave up and just came to brush him and deliver a treat.
And Piers had turned into an aloof, brooding man she barely recognized. Each night, she retired and left a candle burning, waiting for him. Each night, the candle burned down and he did not come.
The only conclusion she could come to was that he so regretted consummating their marriage he could not even bear to lie in the same bed with her.
On the morn of the fourth day, she stopped by the kitchen to grab a chunk of bread and stomped toward the training field. She’d had Nona plait her hair in one long braid and put on the clothes she’d taken to wearing for riding.
If she was to have a husband who wanted nothing to do with her and the responsibility of Kindlemere, she decided she’d better learn something about defending herself.
As she neared the training field, she spotted Padruig engaged with a member of the garrison. Both men leapt and swung across the trampled grass, the clank of metal filling the morning air.
Giselle gnawed on her bread and watched.
Padruig must have spotted her, because he held up a hand to halt his opponent. Breathing heavily, he approached her with a grin. “Good morn, Giselle.”
She swallowed the bread, wishing she’d had the foresight to bring a skin of wine. “Good morn, Padruig.”
He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his blue tunic. The morning sun threw his scars into sharp relief against the tanned skin of his face, but his blue eyes shone bright and clear.
“I have a boon to ask you,” she said.
“I will not take you outside the castle walls, my lady. ’Tis not safe.”
“Nay, ’Tis not that. I wish you to teach me.”
His brow furrowed. “Teach you?”
“Aye. How to fight. How to defend myself.”
His grin slowly widened. “The nun has decided to become a warrior?” His gentle tone took the sting out of the words.
She put a hand on his thick forearm. “I cannot always depend on you to save me, friend.”
“What of your husband? ’Tis his duty to see to your welfare.”
Giselle bit her lip. “Mayhap, but I wish to possess some skills myself. I was fortunate, Padruig. Fortunate that foul man was too interested in what he found beneath my skirts to pay attention to anything else, and fortunate the dagger found its mark. I do not want to depend on good fortune.”
He eyed her closely. “Is there aught amiss, Giselle?”
The urge to crumble into tears and lean on his strength and understanding was overwhelming, but at some point during the restless nights awaiting her husband, Giselle had determined to nourish her independence. She gave Padruig a weak smile. “Much is amiss, as you know. My future depends on the whim of an unpredictable king.”
“You shall have a home, regardless of the king’s decision.”
“I shall have a place to live, true.” Her smile faded. “I am not sure I shall ever have a home.”
Their gazes met, and he nodded. “I understand, my lady. I shall teach you.” He set aside his sword, and handed her a dagger. “ ’Tis the best weapon for you. A sword would be too heavy and cumbersome.”
She stared down at the dagger in her hand and fought back a wave of revulsion, seeing a dark spurt of blood instead of the pale silver of the blade.
“As you know,” he began quietly, “when you strike, you strike to kill.”
Though her body trembled with the step she was about to take, Giselle made herself remember the express
ion on her captors’ faces, Donninc’s smug certainty he would use her body as he saw fit, the leers on the other men’s faces; she made herself remember the terrible feeling of helplessness. She lifted her gaze to Padruig’s. “Aye.”
And her training began.
Cain was deep in thought trying to decide whether to commission a sapphire or opal necklace for Amice to mark Meriall’s birth when Gifford burst into his solar, toting his usual jug of ale and aquiver with his typical exuberance.
“Cain! Cease languishing about and come see this.”
“I am not languishing,” Cain said without looking up from studying the drawing of the necklace’s design. “I am about a very important matter.”
Gifford peered over his shoulder. “Ah, a gift for the lovely Amice. Good idea, boy. That wife of yours deserves to be showered with jewels for putting up with you.”
“As you can see, I am working on just that. I am thinking perhaps a combination of—”
“Think on it later. You have to see something.”
“Has one of your experiments wreaked vast destruction?”
Gifford drew himself up and smoothed down his flyaway white hair. “Of course not. I am most careful.”
“Is Falcon’s Craig under attack?”
“If it were, I surely would not be standing here calmly discoursing with you. I would be seeking my sword.”
“Gifford.”
His uncle grinned. “Our girl is out on the training field.”
At that, Cain started to pay attention. “Giselle?”
“The same. Come on now.”
“Where is Piers?” Cain asked as he stood.
Gifford waved a dismissive hand. “Damn fool took off early on that beast of his. Galloping across the countryside, no doubt.”
Cain frowned as he followed Gifford out the door. With each day that went by without word from Iosobal, Piers grew more distant, more on edge. He had tried to talk to his brother a score of times, but Piers had evaded Cain’s questions, insisting he would be fine.
Cain was beginning to doubt it, and that scared the hell out of him.
“That brother of yours is a troubled man,” Gifford commented as they walked across the bailey. “Hasn’t been right ever since we left Parraba. And now he neglects his bride.” He said the last with such disgust Cain had to smile.
“Perhaps you could offer him instruction.”
“Tried. Boy’s as thick-headed as someone else I know.” Gifford halted and grabbed Cain’s arm. “Look.”
Across the flattened grass Giselle stood facing Padruig, holding a dagger and obviously listening intently to something Padruig was saying. Suddenly, she lunged, the blade flashing.
Padruig ducked the thrust, and took her wrist, showing her some adjustment in the way she held the dagger.
“Girl’s not going to be caught defenseless again,” Gifford said proudly.
“So it seems.” Cain studied the two for a moment. “I am not sure what is more strange—the fact Piers’s convent bred wife is learning to fight with a dagger or the fact her instructor is a scarred Scot with no past.”
Gifford tipped some ale in his mouth. “Giselle is not the same girl who arrived at Falcon’s Craig.”
“Nay. Thank God.”
“Padruig, though, he is a puzzle.” Gifford eyed him over his jug. “Have you learned aught of him?”
Padruig had taken to lingering with Cain after supper while Amice settled Meriall and took some time to herself, but the man was far from loquacious about his background. “Not as much as I would like. He hails from the Highlands, but is vague on specifically where.”
“Denies a clan as well. Odd, that.”
“Aye. There is a story there, no doubt.”
“Mayhap he did something to be banished from his clan and does not want to speak of it.”
Cain studied the patient way Padruig dealt with Giselle and shook his head. “He does not seem the type of man to be guilty of such a deed.”
“Perhaps it was not his fault. Perhaps another set things in motion that Padruig was powerless to prevent,” a faint voice murmured, though no one else stood close by. At least, no one of flesh and blood.
Gifford’s eyes bulged and he choked on his ale. He whipped his head back and forth. “Did you hear that?” he whispered.
Cain let out a groan. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“I knew there was another one! Damned wraiths cannot let us be.”
“Well, at least this one does not appear to mean us harm,” Cain remarked dryly.
“I must speak with Amice at once.” Gifford toddled off, taking frequent pulls from his jug and cursing to himself.
Cain turned to watch Padruig and Giselle parry. The girl had a natural fluidity about her. And Padruig was clearly a seasoned warrior. He reminded Cain of Lugh MacKeir. That was it, he decided. When Lugh arrived with Iosobal, he would put him on the mystery of Padruig.
If Iosobal arrived.
The king’s messenger arrived that afternoon, an officious hanger-on by the name of Lionel Walmesley, who Cain had met several years ago when the man was no more than a purveyor of herbal “cures” to members of the court.
“He says he bears news from King John,” Nyle, Cain’s seneschal, said, standing in the doorway to Cain’s solar, where Cain had retreated to once more ponder the right combination of jewels to adorn Amice’s lovely neck.
Cain turned the pieces of parchment bearing the necklace design over and stood. “Find Piers and Giselle. I will greet our guest in the hall.” He paused on his way out. “You might as well inform Gifford. He will be most unhappy if we leave him out of things.”
Nyle chuckled. “As you say, my lord.”
Cain found Lionel seated at the high table in the great hall, imbibing wine and staring covetously around him. As Cain walked across the rush-strewn floor, he saw Lionel leer at one of the serving maids, who, Cain was please to see, lowered her gaze and hastened her step. “Walmesley,” he said. “Welcome to Falcon’s Craig.”
Lionel stood, a deferential expression pasted on his face which Cain was certain was patently false. “Lord Veuxfort. What a pleasure it is to see you once again.”
Suppressing a grimace, Cain gestured for the man to sit back down. “I understand you bring news from King John.”
“Aye.”
“Regarding our petition on behalf of Lady Giselle?”
“The same.” Lionel removed a sealed fold of vellum from a pouch and set it on the table.
Cain did not pick up the vellum. “My brother and his wife should be joining us anon.” He was about to offer Lionel food when he saw a servant hustling in their direction with a platter heaped high. Clearly, Lionel had lost no time ordering to his own comforts.
“How does our honorable king fare?” Cain asked, though in truth he could have cared less.
Lionel shrugged and stuffed a large piece of cheese into his mouth, washing it down with wine. “Glorious as always. England shall never see a finer ruler than John.”
Fortunately, Cain was saved from having to come up with an appropriate response by Amice’s arrival. After exchanging greetings and, in Cain’s mind, an undue amount of fawning compliments from Walmesley to his wife, Piers and Giselle came into the hall, quickly followed by Gifford and an obviously curious Saraid.
Walmesley’s eyes widened at the sight of Giselle, currently clad in a pale blue bliaut. Her face was pale as whitewash, and she clung to Piers’s arm. Though Cain much preferred Amice’s dark elegance, he had to admit Giselle had an ethereal beauty that appealed to a man on an elemental level. He could not blame Walmesley for staring.
“You are from John?” Piers asked, nearly barking the question.
“Aye.” Walmesley nodded to Giselle and Piers. “The king bade me tell you he has given your petition much thought.” He gestured toward the vellum.
Giselle stared at it as if it contained venomous snakes.
“Piers,” Cain said, handing him the vellum. “Let us
discover our good king’s decision.”
Piers had to fiercely concentrate to keep his hands from shaking as he broke the royal seal. He’d not realized until this moment just how much it mattered to him to reclaim Giselle’s birthright for her, to defeat the Bishop of Ravenswood if only by vellum and ink rather than the sword he would have favored.
He sensed Gifford creeping up to crane his head over Piers’s shoulder, and felt Giselle’s stark gaze on him.
Quickly, he skimmed through the greetings and expressions of surprise over the news of Giselle’s true parentage. He halted near the bottom of the sheet, his heart thumping.
“Kindlemere is yours,” he told Giselle. “He has granted our petition.”
If Giselle had not been holding onto Piers’s arm, she would have fallen. He eased her onto a stool and poured her a cup of wine.
Gifford let out a shout and twirled Saraid in the air.
“I am … amazed,” Giselle said, staring at the vellum. “He believed us.”
“The evidence was incontrovertible, my lady,” Walmesley said, a cunning gleam in his eye. “Clearly, the Bishop of Ravenswood was in error.”
Piers put a hand on Giselle’s shoulder in warning. He sent her a look that told her to let it go.
“Has the Bishop been informed?” Cain asked.
Walmesley nodded, this time with a satisfied smile that told Piers he was no ally of the Bishop of Ravenswood.
“Hah!” Gifford exclaimed. “A celebration is in order. Hawis!” he bellowed, looking around the hall. He pulled
Saraid along behind him. “Hawis!”
“I have been instructed to carry the grant fee with me on my return.”
Giselle looked up, obviously perplexed. “Grant fee?”
“It will be taken care of, as I stated in my prior missive to the king,” Piers said. He squeezed Giselle’s shoulder. “Do not concern yourself with that.”
“But … but you have to pay to get back what should have been mine in the first place?” She sounded so indignant Piers found himself smiling.
“ ’Tis simply the way of things.”
“What is the fee?”
When Piers did not answer, she gave Walmesley such a fierce stare the man’s mouth dropped open. “What is the fee?” she demanded.
