Her gaze rose to the tavern’s painted sign a short distance ahead. She’d never been to The Merry Hen before; respectable ladies didn’t frequent such haunts. She’d heard of the place though. Rumored to have the best ale and fare in the county, ’twas situated close to a main thoroughfare and also offered rooms for nightly rent, and was thus was a favorite stop for travelers.
Cyn slowed his horse so that her mount came alongside his. He, too, was garbed in a plain cloak with a deep hood that was raised to conceal his features. As their gazes locked, he asked, “Changing your mind?”
She forced a bright smile. “Not at all.”
His face in shadow, he studied her. “You do not have to prove your courage to me. I know how brave you are.”
“Good. Then you also know I will not fail you this eve.” At least she’d have plenty of excitement to convey in her next letter to Aislinn. “I do hope all will turn out well,” Magdalen added.
“I, too, hope for a good outcome, although I realize it may not be so.”
Sadness flickered across his face. She knew how much Cyn hoped William was still an honorable man; the truth would be revealed tonight.
A bang and a loudening of the music snapped her attention to the tavern door, now directly ahead on her right. Several drunkards staggered out into the street. Cyn spurred his horse to a trot, putting himself between her and the men. Always the gallant hero.
She followed Cyn into an alley that opened into a dirt yard between the tavern and the stables, a large enough area to park several wagons if needed. The earthy smells of straw and horses wafted to her as Cyn dismounted, handed his mount’s reins to the stocky stable hand, and then helped her down from the gray, his hand securely around her waist so she could lean on him and not have to put her full weight down on her injured leg.
As the stable hand took her horse’s reins, Cyn asked, “Can you tell me who else has arrived? I am curious to know if our friend is here.”
“Are ye now?” the man said, a hint of suspicion in his eyes.
Cyn tensed against her, but the stable hand couldn’t know he was speaking with the local sheriff. Reaching into his cloak, Cyn drew out a few pieces of silver and handed them to the man. “I heard that Lord Redmond, one of the King’s men, was going to be staying the night.”
The lackey took the coins. “If so, ’e ’asn’t turned up yet. ’E usually arrives with ’is men near twilight.”
Relief washed through Magdalen. Cyn had hoped to reach the tavern before Redmond.
As the man took their horses into the stable, Cyn helped her toward the tavern’s main entrance. The building looked fairly well maintained, its walls painted and the thatched roof in good repair. Shouts and bawdy laughter carried from inside though, and the sounds reminded her that their night’s adventure was only just beginning.
She silently thanked Cyn again for the dagger, which she’d tied to her bandaged lower leg with extra strips of linen; the ankle-length gown kept the weapon hidden. Still, she couldn’t ward off misgiving as they approached the weathered front door banded with iron. Cyn opened the tavern door and helped her inside.
One step over the threshold and Magdalen’s eyes began to water from the hazy smoke from the fire across the room and the burning candles on the tables. The tavern, its floor no more than hard-packed dirt covered with straw, was crowded with all manner of folk: farmers, shopkeepers, and travelers. Musicians seated near the hearth launched into another jaunty tune.
She limped alongside Cyn, until they reached the shadows at the far end of the room where he helped her to a small table. As she sat and stretched out her bandaged leg to rest it, a red-haired serving wench strolled to them and asked if they wanted drinks.
“Two mugs of ale,” Cyn said, his gaze flicking down to the woman’s generous breasts.
The wench smiled, revealing the gap between her front teeth. “Is that all ye want?”
“For the moment.”
As the woman sauntered away, Magdalen huffed.
“Do not be annoyed with me. I am only playing my role. Do you see anyone you recognize?”
She fingered aside the edge of her hood to better view the room. Some areas were too shadowed and smoky to clearly see the folk sitting there; once she’d rested her leg, she’d suggest that she and Cyn take a short walk about the interior.
The red-haired wench returned with the ale and, after setting it down on their table, wandered off to serve other customers.
Magdalen sipped her drink, the brew strong and bitter. Cyn draped his arm around her, and in hushed tones, pointed out his men, some at tables by the musicians, others near the tavern door.
Over the robust melody, Magdalen caught a noise drifting in from outside through cracks in the wall: laughter.
Her misgiving furrowed deeper, for she recognized that laugh.
She tugged on Cyn’s sleeve, but before she could say a word, the tavern door opened, and the smoky haze in the room shifted on an incoming draft.
In strode William and two of his men-at-arms.
***
Magdalen’s face had paled.
A warning buzz spread through Cyn’s skull, just as William walked in, accompanied by armed guards.
Cyn’s anger flared, obliterating the part of him that had hoped—prayed—that William wouldn’t follow through with the wretched plan. The damned fool! How could William risk his hard-earned reputation, not to mention the welfare of his wife and child? Why would he, when the King had granted him so much?
Meeting Cyn’s gaze, Magdalen’s eyes flared with anxiety, before she dipped her head and studied her ale. William’s gaze swept the room, and Cyn dropped his attention to the marred table top. He slowly counted to ten, allowing William to complete his assessment of the interior.
Daring to steal a glance, Cyn saw that William had crossed to the bar. He and the barman were talking, but their words were drowned by the music.
William stood in profile, candlelight playing over his twilight blue cloak, one arm resting on the bar’s polished wooden surface. He drummed his fingers. In the light of nearby candles, his brow glistened, as though he was sweating.
Cyn’s lip curled. For the dishonor William was bringing upon himself, he deserved to be uneasy. If he had any sense, he’d walk out now, while he still could—
Magdalen tugged on Cyn’s sleeve again. “The black-haired man to our left, moving his chair. He is the one I saw in the town.”
Cyn glanced in the direction she’d indicated. “Lord Northcliff,” he murmured. Northcliff had just risen from one crowded table and joined another. Cyn’s jaw hardened, for while he’d broken up a few late night brawls involving the young lord, who enjoyed his drink and had a short temper, Cyn had never imagined him to be a traitor.
The tavern door opened again. A corpulent, gray-haired man strode in, his cinnamon-colored cloak, embroidered in black thread at the collar and cuffs, drifting as he walked. Two armed guards followed. Seeing William at the bar, the man grinned and raised his hand in greeting.
“Lord Redmond,” Magdalen whispered.
“Aye,” Cyn muttered. “Earlier than expected.”
“Oh, God.”
Picking up his mug of ale, Cyn rose, his chair scraping the floor. “I must get closer. I need to hear what they are saying.”
“Be careful, Cyn.”
“You too.” Keeping to the shadows, he made his way toward the hearth, where men had gathered to watch the musicians. Cyn leaned against one of the vertical wooden posts supporting the roof, where he was partially blocked from William and Redmond’s view but could still see what was going on—and keep watch on Northcliff’s table.
“—did not expect to see you here,” Redmond was saying. He signaled for his guards to stand watch from a discreet distance. “What brings you to The Merry Hen?”
Good. Redmond was doing just as Cyn had asked in the missive he’d sent to London after his conversation with William; Redmond was acting as though he had no prior know
ledge of tonight’s plot to kill him.
“—to see you, of course,” William said.
Redmond appeared puzzled. “I do not recall your name on my list of meetings. Did my clerk make a mistake?”
William eased away from the bar, his stance nonchalant, yet his broad smile seemed forced. “I heard you would be in this part of Derbyshire and hoped to have a chance to speak with you. I hope ’tis all right?”
“Of course.” Unfastening his cloak, Redmond caught the bartender’s gaze and motioned to the nearest table, cleaner and less battered than most of the others. The bartender swiftly shooed away the folk already sitting there. After he’d wiped up some spilled ale, the man bowed and motioned for Redmond to be seated.
“I reserved yer favorite room upstairs, milord,” the barman said. “Would one of yer guards like ta check all is ta yer satisfaction?”
“Aye. Give one of them the key.” The older lord tossed his cloak over a vacant chair and sat. William took the chair opposite. He hadn’t unfastened or removed his cloak. The vial of poison must be inside the garment, within easy reach.
Cyn’s white-knuckled grip on his mug tightened. He was going to have to get that vial. Somehow. Moreover, he’d told his men that he wanted the traitors captured, not slain, for he had no doubt the treachery extended to far more men than those in the tavern. A good job he’d learned at a young age how to fight well with his fists as well as his weapons.
As one of Redmond’s guards climbed the staircase to the upper level, the busty red-head strolled over to Redmond, bent, and kissed his cheek. Redmond beamed and kissed her back, and Cyn’s brows rose. The renowned food and drink were obviously not the only reasons why Redmond stayed here.
“Yer usual ale, milord?” She straightened slowly to prolong his view of her cleavage.
Redmond nodded. “Bring us a pitcher and two mugs.”
“’Twould be me pleasure, milord.” The woman walked away, her hips swaying. Redmond watched her bottom until she disappeared behind the folk gathered near the hearth.
“What is the latest news from your estate, then?” Redmond asked, and Cyn listened as William talked with obvious excitement about the birth of his son and adapting to becoming a father. With each glowing account of Timothy’s progress, the knot in Cyn’s belly tightened. ’Twas madness for William to risk his family that he clearly loved.
The serving wench returned with the pitcher and mugs. She set them down, poured out some ale, and then went to another table to take an order.
Redmond’s bright-eyed gaze followed. So did the gaze of Redmond’s remaining guard.
Clearly taking advantage of the distraction, William slipped his hand down to his waist. Cyn stepped around the post to better see. A leather bag was tied to the right side of William’s sword belt. A pulse of warning raced through Cyn as William lifted his hand, now curled into a loose fist, cloth poking out between his fingers. Was he holding a handkerchief?
Open your hand, Cyn silently commanded. Let me see what you have.
Redmond was still watching the wench. Warning again rippled through Cyn, for he sensed movement a short distance to his right; Northcliff had risen from his chair.
As Cyn glanced back at the London official, still ogling, William dropped the handkerchief on the table. There was most definitely still an object in his hand.
A vial.
Chapter Thirteen
Still seated at the back of the tavern, Magdalen stiffened, for Cyn had stepped out from behind the post. His face a mask of barely-leashed fury, he strode toward William.
Northcliff, who’d also been watching what was happening at Lord Redmond’s table, had pushed to standing, stepped away from his friends, and was headed for Cyn.
Fear lashed through Magdalen. She lurched to her feet, knocking over her ale. Ignoring the puddle dripping onto the floor, she hobbled forward. She had to help Cyn. She’d never forgive herself if she could have helped him but hadn’t done so.
As she limped past the closest table, heedless of the gawking stares of the drunkards seated there, a man with curly brown hair rose from a table near the hearth and headed for Cyn.
Oh, God!
“Cyn!” she shrieked. Her cry was drowned by the music.
“Cyn!” she shouted again.
“Shut up, wench,” a farmer snapped. Wench? She glowered at him and pushed herself to a faster hobble, for Cyn had almost reached William.
The curly-haired man stepped between Cyn and the table.
“Stand aside,” Cyn commanded.
“I would say the same to you,” the man answered with a sneer.
Northcliff was moving in behind Cyn, as though to entrap him. William, his face white with shock, was looking at Cyn, no doubt having recognized his voice.
“Cyn!” she shouted. “Beware!”
His sharpened gaze flicked to her, while she tried to indicate the man behind him. He stole a glance over his shoulder, while pushing back his hood to reveal his face. “Lord Northcliff,” Cyn said. “Imagine meeting you here.”
Scowling, Northcliff halted. Facing the curly-haired man again, Cyn said, “Lord Garroway.”
Cyn knew both of the men’s names. He’d said them loudly enough for others in the tavern to hear. Surely the lords would be wise enough to retreat?
“Whatever is the matter?” Redmond demanded. “If you men have a disagreement to settle, take it outside.”
“Milord, I am Sheriff Cynric Woodrow. You—”
Lord Garroway slammed his fist into Cyn’s stomach. Grunting, Cyn doubled over and then barreled headfirst into his attacker, driving him sideways into a stocky farmer seated in a nearby chair, which overturned and sent all three men crashing to the floor.
The music faltered. Ceased.
Lord Northcliff drew a knife. More men rose from the tables, while uneasy murmurs rippled through the tavern. Cyn’s lackeys, knives drawn, were elbowing their way toward him.
Men moved in to block their way. Other traitors were confronting Redmond’s lone guard.
She had to hurry. Hurry! Only a couple more steps and she’d reach William.
Cyn scrambled to his feet. As she reached the table, he dodged the downward slash of Lord Northcliff’s dagger. “Redmond,” Cyn bellowed. “Run! Now.”
“Run?” Anger lit the older man’s eyes, and he drew his sword. “Why?”
“Your life is in danger!” Magdalen cried.
Breathing hard, she stopped at William’s chair. He’d pushed to standing, his right hand closed into a fist. She’d kept close watch on him. He hadn’t managed to pour the poison into the London official’s ale…and she’d make sure he never did. She grabbed the jug and tossed it to the floor, where it shattered, along with the two mugs.
“Guards!” Redmond yelled over the escalating sounds of a fight. His remaining guard had tried to draw his sword, but men had grabbed hold of his arms, pinned him against the wall, and were pummeling him with their fists.
Wide-eyed, Redmond hurried backward toward the stairs, his sword raised.
Lord Garroway, once again on his feet, loped toward Redmond.
Her hands around the back of a chair, Magdalen shivered and looked up at William. His attention shifted from Cyn, fighting Lord Northcliff, to Redmond, and then to her. The torment etched into William’s features hit her like a blow, but she must stay focused. William still had the vial. He could still kill with the liquid inside, if given the chance.
“Magdalen? Why are you dressed in that manner?”
“William.” She stretched out her hand. “Give me the poison.”
His burning gaze bored into her. “That missive you found… I was never going to kill Redmond. You must believe me.”
“Please. Do what is right. For Edwina and Timothy.”
“I am. I always do—”
“Then you will give me the vial. Now.”
“I cannot.”
“William!”
“’Tis my proof, Magdalen—”
> “I must destroy it. ’Tis the only way, so no one is hurt.”
“Do it,” Cyn shouted, his face dripping with sweat. Swinging his fist, he walloped Lord Northcliff, whose head wobbled at the impact.
Do what is right, William, she silently begged.
His expression grim, he put his thumb and index finger to his lips and whistled: a shrill signal. He picked up the fallen handkerchief, wrapped it around the vial sealed with a cork-stopper, and handed it to her, just as the tavern door burst open. Men rushed in, all wearing peasant garb, but warriors she recognized them from Glemstow’s garrison. The faintest hope warmed her.
Cyn roared, a sound of intense agony.
Horror whipped through her as Lord Northcliff yanked his knife from Cyn’s left shoulder. Blood, dark and glistening, soaked through the front of Cyn’s cloak.
Chapter Fourteen
Hot, sharp, excruciating pain spread through Cyn’s torso. As the roar died in his throat, he staggered back. Northcliff brought the dagger plunging down again, narrowly missing Cyn’s arm. Recoiling, Cyn retreated several more steps, his right boot knocking against a chair leg.
Ah, God, but his head reeled with the pain in his shoulder. The interior of the tavern spun before his eyes, making him want to drop to his knees and retch.
Never would he yield. He had to save Redmond and Magdalen, to ensure that justice triumphed. Never would he fail to fulfill his duty.
Oh, God, Magdalen. He’d finally found a reason to start living again. If anything happened to her…
A woman’s cry carried over the noise of vicious fighting. Magdalen had seen his wound.
The devastation in her voice tore at him, but he didn’t dare wrest his gaze from Northcliff, who was stalking him, his knife raised, waiting for an advantageous moment to attack. Pain and rage coiled within Cyn, for this fight would end. Now. If Northcliff was prepared to stab a sheriff, he might harm a lady, and Cyn would die before he let anyone harm Magdalen.
As he held Northcliff’s challenging stare, Cyn heard William shouting. He was issuing orders. However, his words were indistinct over the crashes, yells, and grunts from squabbling drunkards and his men battling traitors. Was William ordering his guards to subdue the traitors, or was he telling them to overpower Cyn?
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