No reply.
Katherine almost needed to force herself to breathe. She dimly felt her nails biting into her palms but still did not unclench her fists.
Thomas, don’t accept their lies! Please, don’t force me to be your executioner!
In the heartbeats that followed, Katherine agonized. Thomas did not know enough to make a decision, yet there was no way she and those she served could have risked giving him the truth.
“I have considered the possibility that she lied,” Thomas said finally. “And logically, there is no reason against it. I was an orphan and depended upon her for much. It would be difficult for a lost child to recognize the difference between truth and falsehood.”
If Katherine could have slumped in that cramped hollow, she would have. Instead, it felt as if her blood drained into a pool at her feet.
I now wish he had never looked into my eyes, she told herself, and had never raised hopes of love.
“Good, good,” the voice said, now as if it were the cat satisfied with a finger soft against its throat. “We much prefer that you choose to live as one of us. You will share the mysteries of darkness with us, and anything you wish will become yours.”
“It must have a price,” Thomas said, almost defeated. “The rewards may be plain to see, but loyalty has its demands.”
“Thomas, Thomas,” the voice chided. “We wish only one thing as a test of your commitment.”
“Yes?” Now the pleading of total defeat.
“Your hidden books of knowledge. We must have them.”
If he agrees, Katherine told herself, nothing will ease the pain of my duty. Yet he cannot lead them to the books. I must force my hands to betray my love for him, and tonight he will die.
“Go,” Thomas said with sudden strength and intensity. “Go back to the isle of the Celts!”
Katherine blinked in her darkness.
“Yes!” Thomas raged. “Report back to your murdering barbarian masters that Thomas of Magnus will not bend to those who brand the chests of innocent men.”
“Yet—”
“Yet it appeared I might pledge loyalty? Only to see what it was you truly wished. Now, I shall do everything in my power to prevent you from attaining that desire.”
“Fool!” The word sounded as if it were molten iron, spat bright red from a furnace. “Magnus shall be taken from you as it was given. By the people.”
“That remains to be seen,” Thomas said in a steady voice.
The Earl of York stared in disbelief at his son, Michael, a tall, thin young man with a bloody bandage on his head, who held out a small, circular piece of flesh in the center of his palm.
The two of them were alone in the stables at his castle in York.
The earl had been about to ride his favorite black stallion on an inspection of nearby fields of grain, but news of the return of his son had delayed it. Now the earl stood beside the saddled stallion, his hand on the horse’s ribs where he’d been patting it when his son had approached.
Unaware that his hand had frozen against the horse’s side, the earl glanced at the piece of flesh in Michael’s open hand and then back to the blood-stained bandage that covered the top left side of his son’s head.
“Bandits?” the earl said. “They shall be hunted down and hung without trial.”
“No,” Michael said. “Thomas of Magnus.”
“What?” The earl was stunned.
“Furthermore, he told me to show you this and asked me to pass along a message.”
“Thomas cut off your ear,” the earl said heavily, still unable to absorb what his eyes told him.
“He cut it off himself. And took satisfaction in doing it.”
Normally, the smell of hay and straw and horse comforted the earl. He loved to ride and hunt. On horseback, away from the burdens of his power, he felt the most free.
As the earl drew in a deep breath, none of those smells gave him the usual enjoyment. Instead, he fought an outburst of rage.
The earl let out his breath, feeling under control again.
“Thomas also gave me a letter for you,” Michael said.
Michael fumbled with a pouch, a difficult move because he was obviously reluctant to simply drop his own ear and throw it away.
“Straight from Thomas of Magnus,” Michael said, handing a sealed letter across to the earl. “I watched him write it myself.”
The earl examined the wax seal and satisfied himself that it showed the emblem of Magnus. He opened it and read it from where he stood beside the horse.
I have no interest in accepting an invitation for a place of honor at your victory feast. My obligation to you was fulfilled when I led the defeat of the Scots. Further, I will only agree to a pact of allegiance once I receive a payment of gold for my services during the march against the Scots. Ensure that it completely fills the chest I have sent back with your son. If it does not arrive within a fortnight, I will consider your inaction to be a declaration of war. As proof of the seriousness of my intent to wage battle against you if you do not send the gold, look no further than the ear I have taken from your son.
The earl slowly folded the letter. “I still cannot believe Thomas did this.”
“I am your son. You think I tell a lie?”
“You have lied to me before. Let’s not fool ourselves. It would serve you well for me to war against Magnus, for then it would belong to you someday.”
Michael showed scorn. “If I were to lie about this, I would have to keep my head covered the rest of my life around you.”
Slowly Michael unwound the bandage.
He turned a side of his head toward the earl, showing a bloody ridge.
The earl gritted his teeth.
“Make note of what I have sworn in this moment,” the earl said between those gritted teeth. “We shall keep your ear. After Magnus falls, I’ll ensure that Thomas eats it before he faces the hangman.”
Thomas paced his bedchamber as late-afternoon sun lit the stone floors through the shutters he’d thrown open to the window on the west side.
Eyes closed, Thomas ran his fingers along one of the walls.
The ultimatum delivered by the messenger had served to remind Thomas of what he’d set aside because of the war against the Scots—his need to understand how the ghost of Isabelle had come to him in his bedchamber with a similar message.
He was almost prepared to believe that the event had not occurred, that it had been hallucination. After all, to himself he’d nearly proven without doubt that his food that evening had been laced with a type of poison that would alter his senses. The notation in his books about the symptoms of henbane matched very closely how he’d felt upon waking to the presence of Isabelle—sluggish to the point of immobility, the sensation of being tied in place.
Then, his tamed mouse had gone in those dizzying circles from a taste of stew, dropping as if dead, only to wake slowly a short time later.
His cook, too, had gone blind and insane. Thomas guessed the cook had been poisoned to ensure Thomas could not find out who had instructed him to tamper with the food.
Yet, as convinced as Thomas was that he’d fallen under the spell of a potion on the night of the visit by Isabelle, and as much as he wanted to believe in a simple explanation such as hallucination, he had to choose otherwise.
After all, Isabelle had been essentially a harbinger of the messenger who had just spoken to Thomas. It would be too much of a stretch to believe Thomas’s own mind had conjured up an image of Isabelle in anticipation that someday the Druids would send someone else.
No. Since Thomas was highly skeptical of the existence of ghosts, he could only conclude it had been Isabelle. That left him another difficult question—how had she been brought back to life? But he’d decided he would deal with that only if he could answer a secondary question. How had she entered and departed from his bedchamber?
The logical answer was a hidden entrance somewhere. And as daughter of the former lord, Isabelle, it was natur
al to assume, would have knowledge of any secret passageways in the castle. So now, Thomas was diligently doing what he had had no time to accomplish earlier—a thorough search of the walls.
He closed his eyes, deciding that he would force himself to rely on a sense of touch with his fingers. He was hoping to find a seam or any other indication of a break in the carefully mortared stone.
After an hour inspecting every surface, Thomas changed his tactics.
He had a small hammer, and methodically, he lightly tapped on every stone, listening for hollow points.
That took another hour.
He was unsuccessful with that too.
Thomas felt no sense of frustration or impatience. There must be another way in or another way out. Eventually, he would find it.
He sat on a chest at the foot of his bed to give it more thought.
The sunlight angled to the fireplace on the far wall, and something caught the light as it waved slightly in the breeze that blew through the open shutters.
He stood and walked over to examine it.
It was a single white thread, caught in a rough piece of mortar.
White.
The same color as the dress Isabelle had worn the night she delivered her message.
He began to examine the stones around it more closely.
But he was interrupted by a knock on his door.
“M’lord!” It was Robert’s voice.
Thomas didn’t like the alarm he heard, and he hurried to open the door.
“What is it?” Thomas asked.
“The Earl of York,” Robert said. “I’ve received word he is marching in our direction. With an army.”
As he walked through the depths of the castle to the prison cells, Thomas made efforts to breathe through his mouth. Although he insisted that the prisoner get a clean bed of straw every day and that his waste bucket was promptly dumped, it was impossible to avoid the stench that came with imprisonment in tight, dark quarters.
He was in a difficult position. A guard had delivered the message that Geoffrey wanted to see him and had information important to him. On one hand, yes, Thomas was curious and yes, the information might be vital to Thomas. On the other hand, responding to Geoffrey showed a degree of desperation—something Thomas certainly felt—that put Thomas in a weak position.
He stopped in the shadows between two lit torches and realized that showing weakness was not worth whatever information Geoffrey might give him.
He made a decision—one that perhaps he could have made much sooner if his friend Sir William had remained with him at Magnus. Thomas felt he could certainly use the knight’s wisdom and guidance.
Thomas turned back and climbed the steps to take him to the throne room. As he passed a guard, he gave simple orders.
“Shackle and blindfold Geoffrey, and escort him to me.”
Much better, Thomas told himself. Geoffrey could feel a degree of helplessness as he became a supplicant to Thomas.
“You’ve heard the tale of the boy who cried wolf,” Thomas told Geoffrey.
The man in front of him tilted his head, tracking Thomas by sound, not sight. Geoffrey’s skin was gray, his face greasy. His appearance put him among the dregs of criminals, yet his posture reflected a man of royalty.
Thomas felt an instinctive hatred for the man, but continued calmly. “The boy, as you recall, was able to cry wolf twice and the villagers believed both times. It was the third time, when the wolf was really there, that the villagers ignored him. You, however, have only one chance. If you have no information of value to give, no matter how you plead with the guards, you will not get another audience with me.”
“Soon,” Geoffrey said, “you’ll bow to me.”
“That was your one chance,” Thomas said. “A threat is not information.”
To the guards, Thomas gave a curt order. “Take him away.”
Geoffrey cackled. “You refuse to bow to the Druids. Here is the prophecy.”
“Take him away,” Thomas said.
As two guards grabbed him by the elbows, one on each side, Geoffrey let himself go limp so they had to drag him. “Wasn’t it enough to see the power of the Druids when Isabelle visited you from the dead? That was the first sign. And the next is this. Before the hour is out, bats will fall from the sky.”
This was a disturbing message, especially because Thomas could see its effect on the guards, who looked up involuntarily as if expecting bats to fall from the stone ceiling.
Thomas doubted it would happen, so it wasn’t the prophecy that frightened him.
Instead, it was the fact that Geoffrey had spoken about Isabelle’s nighttime visit, whether she was a ghost or someone risen from the dead. It wasn’t something Thomas had told anyone.
So how had Geoffrey known?
Tiny John walked the streets of Magnus toward the church when the first howl sounded.
Those around him cocked their heads.
“Listen! What’s that?”
“Two dogs fighting, I’d say.”
“No, not quite.”
“What’s going on?”
Then the boy’s skin prickled.
Another unearthly howl.
Within moments, the shrieking chorus filled Magnus.
Dogs—in the streets, under carts, in sheds—all through Magnus moaned and howled and barked. People stopped and stared around in amazement. The howling grew louder and more frenzied.
An uneasy feeling filled him, one that had nothing to do with the almost supernatural noise of the dogs. He wanted to hold his head and shake away the grip of something he couldn’t explain.
Now cats. The high-pitched scream of yowling cats gradually became plain above the yipping and howling of dogs. All people stood where they were, frozen in awed dread. Rats scurried from dark hiding places, from the corners of market stalls, from the holes among stone walls, and in dozens of places ran headlong and uncaring across the feet of shopkeepers and market people.
Then, unbelievably, bats!
Dozens fell from the sky. A great swarm circled frantically a hundred feet above Magnus, each bat dipping and swooping in a crazed dance to exhaustion.
Bats do not fly during the daytime, Tiny John told himself as he struggled to accept what his eyes told him. They do not drop like a hailstorm of dark stones.
Still the bats fell. Onto thatched roofs. Onto the carts of shopkeepers. Onto the dried, packed dirt of the streets.
The thud of their landing bodies was lost among the howling and shrieking of cats and dogs. And into the racket came the screams of terrified peasants.
A final dozen bats dropped from the sky to quiver and shake in death throes. The dogs stopped howling. The cats stopped shrieking. And, stunned by the sudden end of the animals’ noise, the terrified peasants stopped screaming.
Whispers began.
“A judgment from God,” someone said.
“Yes,” another said, more clearly. “We allow a murderer of monks to remain lord of Magnus!”
“The Earl of York brings justice with his army!”
“God’s judgment!”
“Yes! God’s judgment upon us!”
The whispers around them in the marketplace became shouts of anger and fear. Bats lay strewn in all directions.
Tiny John’s mouth was dry. He forced himself to swallow. “Thomas must hear of this,” he whispered. “If he hasn’t been informed already.”
Katherine reached the secluded grove long after the final bells of midnight had rung clearly across the valley from within Magnus. More than once, bent and covered in shawls, she had by necessity played the role of a disoriented servant seeking her tent in the darkness to get by the sentries posted by the Earl of York’s army, now camped at the edge of the valley surrounding Magnus. And each time she had faced a sentry, she had gripped her dagger tightly beneath her shawl. Nothing, she told herself, must keep her from Hawkwood.
The long walk along the valley bottom through the black of night had not been
simple either. In her mind, each rustle of leaves, each sway of branches, each tiny movement was a falling bat or a scurrying rat. Before, the night had held nothing to frighten her. Now, after the horror of those brief moments in Magnus, it was difficult to imagine she had ever traversed the dark with ease.
Her nerves, however, had not prevented her from making steady progress. Step by step, tree by tree, clearing by clearing, she had moved toward the prearranged meeting place.
As always, Hawkwood was waiting as promised.
He wasted no time with greetings. Nor in seeking identification. Only Katherine would know of this place, or that he would be here each night at this time.
“What happens in Magnus?”
She felt a brief pride that he trusted her enough to assume she succeeded in her mission.
“As you foresaw,” Katherine said, “those of darkness sent a messenger.”
“And as you predicted,” the old man said after some thought, “he refused to be bullied or bribed.”
“Yes, but how do you know of—”
“Katherine, had you been forced to be his executioner, nothing could have hidden it in your voice. Thus, I know he is alive. And alive only because he wants no part of the Druids.”
“There is more,” she said, and explained the morning’s happenings and the rumbles of fear within Magnus at the apparent signs of the supernatural.
The old man mused for several minutes. “Your fear is legitimate, my child. Kings—no matter what they wish to believe—rule only by the consent of the people. History is scarred by the revolutions against fools who believed otherwise. Thomas may indeed lose Magnus.”
“And Thomas grieves,” Katherine told the old man. “He is bewildered by the earl’s declaration of war, and moreover by his fierce anger. Thomas once believed they were friends.”
Katherine explained the savage message delivered late that afternoon by scroll. Unconditional surrender or unconditional death.
“He is in danger. Not directly because of the siege. But because of the events.”
Katherine nodded. “The dogs. The cats. Bats falling dead from the sky. Now that the people within Magnus believe justice must be served against Thomas, he may lose his lordship the same way he gained it.”
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