Murdoch met the other man’s gaze steadily. “Perhaps I had no choice.”
Stewart sighed heavily. “Perhaps you are no longer the man I believed you to be.”
Murdoch had to drop his gaze. “I am not, Stewart, that much is certain. I am both more and less.”
“I see the less but not the more,” Stewart said. He gave Murdoch one last look, then spurred his horse onward, quickly leaving Murdoch behind.
Murdoch slowed Zephyr as the shadow of the forest drew closer, reluctant to enter the domain of the Elphine Queen again. He clung to the vestige of warmth yet within him, the gossamer memory of Isabella’s touch, and tried to bolster his courage for the night ahead. She would come to him again, he knew as much, and she would be less inclined to leave him be than even the night before.
He could not surrender.
He could not cede.
Murdoch must be strong, even as his body fell prey to her spell. He must survive the new moon somehow, that he could court Isabella with honor. If nothing else, he must see the relic restored to Seton Manor.
He told himself all of this, noting that every shadow was infested with the light of the Fae. It was yet morning and he knew the Elphine Queen’s power would grow by night. He felt cold with a sudden vigor that could only be their fault, and he saw ghosts hovering in the shadows, too.
He turned Zephyr and rode across Kinfairlie’s fields, needing to think and knowing it would not be possible within the shadow of Kinfairlie’s forest.
* * *
The tea made from the wild thyme was murky and dark green. Isabella had found the plant beneath the snow, exactly where the smith had said it grew, its pungent and distinct scent all the identification necessary. It was very similar to the kitchen thyme in growing habit, but smaller with tiny leaves. Like the kitchen thyme, it seemed to slumber in winter and its leaves had turned a dark green. Isabella compared what she had harvested from beneath the snow on the mill bank one last time with the thyme in the kitchen garden before she brewed her tea.
The scent was strong, and she was relieved that they were roasting fowl in the kitchens that day for it and the herbs used with it disguised the scent of Isabella’s tea. As she waited for her brew to cool, she made another posset for Eleanor ensuring that she added more mint to the posset this time to further obscure the pungent smell of the wild thyme.
Isabella eyed the brew, murmured a prayer, then drank the tea. The taste was not unpleasant, though it was not a brew she would have consumed by choice. She felt no different after she had drunk it, and certainly she saw nothing different in her surroundings.
Despite herself, she was disappointed. She did not have to pretend to be unable to see the Fae, for still she could not see them.
Isabella picked up the hot posset for Eleanor, intending to deliver it to the solar.
She had time to reach the darkness at the base of the stairs to the tower, time to wonder whether Moira and the smith were mad, time to consider what she might do next, and then the shadows exploded into sound and activity.
At first Isabella thought that Kinfairlie’s keep was infested with mice. There were small creatures scuttling in the shadows, running across the stairs in front of her, leaping into the shadows in the corners. They were dark and small.
But they were not mice.
No, they were tiny, misshapen men with squinted eyes and bent noses. They reminded Isabella of the old willows by the river in the forest, the gnarled trees with whorls and knots in their roots and boughs. They were twisted and dark-skinned, as if tanned by the sun, and wizened with apparent age. They moved quickly and furtively, scrambling in a manner not unlike mice.
They could not have been a hand span in height and were so numerous that they flowed like quicksilver. There were hundreds of them, seemingly on all sides, the shadows and corners moving with their frantic movement, as they crawled over each other.
It was only with closer examination – while pretending to be study the toe of her boot – that Isabella saw the blue whorls on their skin. The blue was not so dark that it stood out against the tanned brown of their flesh, but when she looked it was there.
The pattern was exactly like that on Murdoch’s flesh.
And the creatures sang.
Isabella did not understand all of the words of their songs. She recognized some Gaelic amidst the cacophony of sound, and caught some snippets of English, too. They were raucous and they laughed at their own verses, which left her in no doubt that some of their language was crude, if not rude. Their voices made her shudder, high and squeaking or low and guttural. Either way, it was hard to pretend that she was oblivious to them.
How had she managed to not hear them before?
It was clear that they assumed she was still unaware of them and Isabella recalled the warnings Moira and the smith had given. She pretended to continue on her way, keeping her expression impassive even though she was shocked by the sheer numbers of them. It was not easily done. She feared to step on one of them as they raced across her path, or to react to an overheard lewd verse. Their earthy commentary became more clear, and she pretended to be among the men at the stables when they were unaware of her presence.
Isabella assumed that this was what her sister Elizabeth saw. Which one of the small creatures was Darg? Or was Darg even present? She wondered whether Elizabeth often saw so many Fae at once, because she only ever mentioned Darg. Were these spriggans or another kind of Fae? Isabella would not have known a spriggan from a bogle by sight, though she had heard tales of both.
That was when she heard their verses merge into a single chorus.
“Gold and silver at last regained, only to be at risk again. Kings and queens would claim our hoard, unless we ensure ’tis safely stored. Intruders gather at the gate, but our treasures, they will not take.” They spat in fury at this very idea, a scuffle breaking out amidst their numbers. “Off we hasten to Ravensmuir, to see our riches made secure.”
Isabella reached the second floor of the tower. She glanced up and saw a golden goblet pushed from the top of the stairs. It must have come from the solar, or Alexander’s chamber, maybe even from the treasury. The cup rolled and bounced, encouraged on its way by the army of small cheering Fae. It landed on the second floor, then rolled to Isabella’s feet. She put out her foot to stop it instinctively, then wondered whether she should have been able to see it.
The Fae had lunged after it, then frozen in dismay at her intervention. She felt the silence of their perusal and knew she had to pretend to be oblivious.
All the same, she was outraged. This had come from Kinfairlie. These wretched little thieving Fae meant to abscond with treasure from her brother’s holding and take it to Ravensmuir.
Which simply justified her deceiving them, the better to learn their scheme.
“Oh!” Isabella exclaimed. “However did that goblet get to be here?” She bent and picked it up, brushing the dust from it. She ignored the hissing, spitting and stamping sprites that tried to snatch at it, then cursed her when she held it aloft.
“That Moira.” Isabella shook her head. “I shall have to speak to her about leaving such items at the top of the stairs. Why, some poor soul could have tripped and fallen. Anthony might have broken a bone.” Still tsk-ing, she picked up her skirts and marched up the stairs to the third floor.
What else would they steal?
What had they stolen already?
Isabella continued to the third floor to deliver Eleanor’s posset, keeping her eyes open. When she saw four of the Fae carrying a familiar silver platter on their shoulders, keeping to the shadows lest she spy the treasure, Isabella knew the truth.
The Fae had stolen the relics from their rightful owners. It made some sense, for Darg had told Elizabeth of its conviction that the relics at Ravensmuir were its own. And the Fae would be able to slip past locked doors and invade secure treasuries.
They were taking the relics back to Ravensmuir, probably to hide them in the caverns on
ce again – and incidentally, they would take whatever else they could claim on the way. In a way, it made sense to take the relics back to Ravensmuir, where they had been secured for years before Tynan saw them auctioned. Indeed, it made more sense to hide the relics there the more Isabella thought about it: the ruins of collapsed Ravensmuir were known to be unsafe. Few humans would dare to enter the remains of that keep in order to search for a hoard of treasure that all knew had been sold and moved.
Which simply meant that she had to tell Murdoch about the Fae and interrupt the procession of treasures before they ever reached Ravensmuir. That was the only way he would be able to retrieve his family’s relic. If the Fae were moving their valuables on this night, she had little time to waste. Murdoch would have this one chance to retrieve his brother’s property, and she would have this one chance to save her brother’s reputation.
Isabella had need of a horse.
* * *
Chapter Ten
Rhys FitzHenry was glad to be within shouting distance of Kinfairlie keep. He could not blame his lady wife for wanting to visit her family and to lend aid to her brother’s wife. He had argued in favor of a spring visit, for Madeline was only just recovering from the delivery of their daughter. Rhys would have been content to have remained at home with his family in winter.
On the other hand, there was naught he could deny his lady wife when she was determined. Madeline was convinced that Eleanor had need of her, and Rhys saw only one way to allay her fears.
So they rode to Kinfairlie.
Their party was small, just a maid, a squire and another man-at-arms. Their initial plan had been to stop nightly to let the horses rest, keeping their own steeds instead of changing mounts. It had meant slower passage, but Rhys was not of a mind to relinquish any of his horses to the hand of another, even for a short period of time. In addition, he had thought a slower passage would make the journey easier for the children.
Against all expectation, it had become wickedly cold these past few days, cold enough that Rhys had refused to ride on several mornings. The wind sent a chill through his bones that left him shivering long after they were seated before the fire in an inn. Rhys had never known even the north to be this cold, and Madeline – who had grown up at Kinfairlie – agreed with his assessment in that. Due to the weather, they had made even slower progress than Rhys had hoped. It had been by his own choices, but still he chafed to arrive.
’Twas a relief indeed to know that they would be at Kinfairlie’s hall within the hour. It was only just falling dark, the evening coming early this time of year. Rhys was glad that soon there would be meat upon a board before him, ale to quench a traveler’s thirst and warm beds for the children.
His son, Dafydd, dozed in the saddle before him, his father’s grasp keeping him from falling. The boy had not seen three summers, but he was tall for his age and hale. He was his father’s pride. His daughter, Rhiannon, was only months old and slept in a length of cloth bound around Madeline’s shoulders. The child was close enough to nurse, if necessary, as they rode, and also to share Madeline’s heat. Madeline, even now, had her fur-lined cloak closed around the child. Her face was too rosy, though, pinkened from the cold, and Rhys would see her before a fire with all haste.
The shadow of Kinfairlie’s forest closed around them, the boundary marker well behind them, and Rhys felt an increment of tension ease from his shoulders.
Soon.
It was strangely dark and cold in the forest, given that the trees were barren of leaves. Rhys glanced upward, noting the blue of the late afternoon sky. He could still see the sun in the west, hovering above the horizon, and could not imagine why the forest was so very dark. It must be a trick of the light.
“Do you finally cease to fret?” Madeline demanded, a twinkle in her eye. “By all the saints in heaven, Rhys, you worry more than a hundred old women.”
“I but show a care for the welfare of my family,” Rhys protested with a smile. He was well accustomed to his wife teasing him for his protectiveness, though he knew she relied upon it. “’Tis not the finest time of year to journey all the length of England, never mind with a young son and a babe.”
Madeline’s smile faded and she reached to touch the back of his hand. “I know, Rhys, but Alexander’s missive at Yuletide left me uneasy. I cannot help but fear for Eleanor.”
“But he said she was well enough with the child, just as before.” Rhys protested by rote, for they had had this discussion a dozen times or more.
Madeline winced. “You know as well as I that she always does more than she should, and I fear that she will demand too much of herself. With a child in her belly, she should retire to the solar more often, but she will not do it if she sees tasks to be done.”
“Your sisters are there.”
“But there is labor she will not entrust to them. I know Eleanor.” Rhys saw his lady’s concern and turned his hand so that he clasped her fingers. She sighed. “I simply would be of aid to Eleanor, and do what I can to ensure the safe arrival of their child.”
“I understand,” Rhys agreed quietly. “But know that if ’twas any less than the full desire of your heart to do this thing, I should have insisted we remain at home.”
“You tried as much.” Madeline’s grip tightened on his fingers. “Thank you for indulging my whim, anwylaf.” The pair shared a smile that made Rhys yearn for the warm bed he would share with his lady on this night.
He reluctantly released her hand. “You, too, should be resting abed in the solar.”
Madeline smiled. “Perhaps Eleanor and I shall nap together.” Her smile turned mischievous. “Or would you prefer that I slept the nights with my brother’s wife, as well?”
“I should not!” Rhys protested, savoring the way his Madeline laughed. The baby hiccupped and she peeked beneath her cloak. She whispered to the child and Dafydd stirred restlessly before Rhys.
“Have we arrived as yet?” he asked, squirming in a most familiar way.
“Soon,” Rhys told the boy. “’Twill be soon enough.”
“But I cannot wait.” The boy cupped his hand over himself and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I have to piss!”
Rhys shared a smile with Madeline, then indicated the side of the road. “The path is straight and we are within Kinfairlie’s bounds. Carry on and we shall catch up before you leave the forest.”
“’Twill be better thus,” Madeline agreed. “’Twill be an hour before we are free of the welcome we are sure to gain.”
“It will be all the greater for our arriving unannounced,” Rhys said, then halted his steed.
He lifted down Dafydd and helped him with his chausses, impressed when the boy loosed an impressive volume. “You fared well in this,” he murmured, glad he had not found himself riding in dampness. Dafydd sighed with such relief that Rhys found himself grinning.
Rhys stood between the horse and the boy, his gaze flicking between the party that continued through the woods and his son. He crouched to help Dafydd refasten his chausses just as a cry rang through the woods.
“Halt!” shouted a male voice Rhys did not recognize. “Halt and surrender all of value.”
Rhys straightened in alarm, holding his son close. What was this? Thieves in Kinfairlie’s forest?
Horses whinnied and shied on the road ahead. Rhys saw more shadows, surrounding his family’s party. He saw the flash of a blade and Madeline’s maid screamed.
“Rhys!” Madeline cried and Rhys’ blood ran cold.
He seized his son, those chausses still unlaced, and swung into his saddle. He bound the boy to the pommel before him, even as he gave his spurs to his horse. “Be quiet and brave,” Rhys counseled his son as they galloped down the road. “I need you to remain with the horse and ensure his safety, no matter what happens.”
Dafydd nodded, his heart thundering beneath Rhys’ hand. Rhys felt his son’s fear more keenly than his own concern, and knew he would have the liver of the man who dared to threaten his
own family.
And if Madeline sustained so much as a scratch, he would make that villain watch his own disembowelment.
* * *
The Fae were everywhere.
Isabella could not believe as much, but her own eyes revealed the truth. They were thick on the rafters in the stables, and there were eyes peering from the stacks of hay in the corners. She concocted some tale about wanting a ride and the ostler saddled a mare for her, so untroubled by the pinching fingers and cackling Fae that surrounded him that Isabella knew he could not be pretending to be oblivious.
How did Elizabeth bear the sight? How was it that she spoke only of Darg when there was the Fae were so numerous? Isabella would have to ask her.
Maybe something had changed.
A pair of trolls stood sentinel beside the gatekeeper, as impassive as a pair of standing stones. The air was full of glittering golden dust, some of which proved to be small winged Fae, laughing as they swooped through the air.
As Isabella rode across Kinfairlie’s fields, she could not help but notice that the concentration of Fae became greater with every step the horse took. The forest seemed to emanate a radiance unlike anything she had ever seen before. She could have been riding into a swarm of fireflies, approaching the vortex of their flock.
The mare seemed drawn to the golden light and Isabella let her choose her own path through the bracken. She had a feeling that Murdoch would be found where the light was brightest, but she was mistaken.
The light emanated from a Fae court.
It could be nothing else. Isabella halted the horse to stare on the marvel of the sight. Golden light with no particular source lit the clearing in the forest, creating a glowing half-sphere. Within the illuminated space, courtiers danced – courtiers with wings and antennae and heads that were not human. They ranged in size from being twice the height of Isabella to being small enough to stand upon her palm. Their laughter was like the tinkle of silver bells and their music was both haunting and infectious.
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