Mack has the thick shoulders and wide chest of someone who’s played rugby, plus the broken nose. But his eyes are dark brown, so dark they’re almost black, and in the flurry of greeting, Jesse registers an odd fact: Mack has a strand of white hair among the dark—a bright flash above one eye.
“Putting on a bit, I see, Dr. Brandon.” Mack throws a punch at Rory’s diaphragm and dodges a faked uppercut in return as the two laugh, great whoops that silence the room.
But Mack’s registered Jesse, and after a moment’s hesitation Rory says, “And this is Jesse Marley. She’s staying at Hundredfield with Alicia. Jesse, this is my brother, Mack.”
“Mack, Jesse; Jesse, Mack. We could sing that, if you like. I hear a Welsh male-voice choir, one hundred strong.” Mack grins, but he doesn’t make a big thing of looking at her face.
Jesse swallows. His whimsical kindness brings tears too close again. “Is Mack short for . . .?”
His face creases attractively. “Nope. That’s my name.”
“As in truck; always been built like one.” But Rory draws his brother to one side. He murmurs, “Is there any way we could eat in the private dining room? Jesse’s . . .”
Jesse hears him. “The truth is, I’ve not been well and . . .”
“Of course. No sooner said than— Rachel!” Mack weaves through the tables to a waitress. The woman turns patiently when Mack taps her on the shoulder.
“I wasn’t going to tell him.” Rory watches his brother as the woman nods.
“But I decided I would.” Jesse’s tired of feeling ashamed and overwrought; really, really tired of the bad psychic weather in her head.
“All settled.” Mack’s back. He guides Jesse to a door set deep in the wall. “You might have to duck.” He points above her head.
“Again.” Jesse nods.
“What?” Mack’s confused.
“Nothing.” She manages a smile. The lintel is certainly low and the thickness of the walls massive, but now she’s staring at the stone beneath her feet. It’s carved with what seems like a bundle of sticks and some letters: SPQR. She looks at Mack expectantly. “I’ve seen this before.”
Mack nods. “ ‘The Senate and People of Rome.’ Some say we should put it in a museum, but I think it belongs where it is.” He gestures through the open door. “Just through here.”
Jesse pauses. She’d like to kneel down and press her fingers into the carved letters. Maybe the person who carved these words, this image, two thousand years ago had the usual human problems too; does that put her own transient misery into perspective? Only maybe. She steps carefully over the carving and through into the room beyond; it’s an odd space, a truncated half circle with a series of stone seats set into bays in the wall.
Mack says, “This would have been a circular room once, with a seat for each of the monks in the niches. It’s all that remains of the priory house.”
Grapevines have been carved around the bays, and Jesse steps closer. “Maybe the monks knew the place would end up as a pub? Sorry! What I meant was . . .” She’s horrified.
Mack’s amused. “Don’t think they’d have minded so much. Christ associated with all sorts of riffraff, publicans included.”
“Now I really am embarrassed.” Jesse’s face is flaming.
Rory pulls out a chair from the table in the center of the space. “And I’m hungry.”
Mack takes the hint. “I’ll send Rachel with the menus. Enjoy your lunch.”
Rory calls out, “Where’s Mum, by the way? Jesse wants to meet her.”
“At the doctor’s. Nothing wrong. Just a checkup.” Mack closes the door with a soft click and cuts off light from the pub. Jesse sees the room is windowless, though lit with some drama by artificial candles in sconces around the walls.
A knock punctures the awkward silence as the door opens and Rachel peers in. She brings menus to the table. “Hello, Rory. Nice to see you again. Your mum’ll be happy.” Rachel’s smile brightens an otherwise unremarkable face.
“Likewise.” Rory grins easily.
The waitress gets out an order pad from a pocket. “So, chef’s specials. For starters, we have a shrimp velouté with our own smoked wild salmon, which is very popular.”
The words wash over Jesse as she tries to think. She clears her throat. “Actually, I don’t think I’m hungry.” She hands the menu back.
“Some tea, perhaps?” Rachel is unfazed.
“That would be lovely.” It’s true. Jesse’s thirsty suddenly.
“What about you, Rory?”
“Bouillabaisse sounds good.”
The door closes quietly.
Now or never. She feels his eyes on her face. “So, Rory, what’s the truth?”
“The truth.” Rory says the word as if he’s tasting each letter. As if he does not quite like the flavor. “What do you think you know, Jesse?”
Jesse touches her skull. “Everything’s getting worse. Today, when we went to the keep”—she shakes her head—“I was frightened.”
“Can you say why?”
She swallows, presses her hands over her eyes. “Sometimes”—she shakes her head—“this is all just too much.”
He says quietly, “You said you are frightened. Is it the thought of insanity?”
The words go off like a bomb. Jesse tries to speak, and again; finally something struggles out of her mouth. “You’re the doctor. Am I insane?” The truculence fades to a plea.
Rory leans forward. “If it gives you comfort, I’m almost certain you’re not.”
“Almost certain?”
“On available evidence.”
The door cracks open as Mack backs through with a tray.
Rory attempts a smile. “Though everything’s relative.”
Mack puts the soup in front of his brother with practiced care. “And for you, Miss Jesse, the all-England restorative. Though the tea’s actually Scottish Blend.” Pot, cup, sugar, strainer, and milk are deposited on the table. “Rachel thought you might like this as well.” A plate of scones is put down, jam and cream on the side. “Just to pick at.” Mack stands back, the tray clasped to his chest like a shield. “Whose relative?”
“Not who, what.” Rory picks up the soup spoon, scoops up a prawn. “Can’t have too much saffron in a fish soup, that’s what I think.”
Jesse stares at Rory. For a few minutes the urbane mask had gone. Now it’s back.
“Do you know what he’s talking about?” Mack pulls a chair out from the table and sits.
Jesse says slowly, “I’m trying to trace my birth family. All I know is my mother’s name, my birthday, and the fact I was born in Jedburgh. I’d be further along, but I had an accident in London and Rory was my doctor. I’m here because of him.”
“Rest and rehabilitation,” Rory speaks around the soup.
Mack’s eyes are sympathetic. “That’s no good—the accident, not the doctor. Obviously.” He smiles. “Still, Jedburgh’s not so far away, and everyone knows everyone in the borders. Not such a grand thing some of the time, but useful all the same.”
Jesse’s mood lifts. She likes this big, calm man who seems so much less complicated than his brother. “The librarian told me that too. She also suggested I search church registers.”
“She was right. Try a scone.” Mack nudges the food closer. There’s a pat of pale butter and two kinds of jam, plus a dish of whipped cream.
Jesse’s stomach gurgles.
Rory deadpans, “I’d say that’s a vote in favor.”
She laughs. “Seconded.” She breaks a scone open and loads it with cream and jam.
Satisfied, Mack gets up. “I could introduce you to the rector of St. Michael’s if you like. Good value, if a bit eccentric. Call me when you’re next going to be in town. Easy to set up.”
“Would you do that?” Hope makes Jesse swallow a piece of scone too quickly. She gasps and coughs.
Mack bangs her between the shoulder blades.
Jesse shakes her head as the paroxysm
subsides, and with one more thump, Mack scales back the assault.
Rory murmurs, “Did I tell you about the broken clavicle?” He points the soup spoon at Jesse’s sling.
Mack’s horrified. “So sorry! Really, I—”
She manages the facsimile of a grin. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” Poor Mack. He’s scarlet.
“I’m a doctor. All will be well.” The glint in Rory’s eye is wicked.
“Well, if you’re sure you’re okay, I’ll . . .” Mack bumbles toward the door.
“That wasn’t very kind.”
Rory contemplates the rest of the soup with interest. “No one ever said I was.”
The lunchtime crowd is thinning as Rory shepherds Jesse through the bar. “There she is. Mum!” He waves.
A handsome woman somewhere in her later forties stands behind the cash register.
Now that’s a smile, thinks Jesse, as Rory’s mum leaves her customers and hurries to her son.
“Mack said you were here, but”—those bright eyes glide to Jesse’s face—“I didn’t want to disturb.”
Rory puts an arm around his mother’s shoulders. “We’ll be at Hundredfield for a couple of weeks, Mum, so I just wanted to say hello and—”
Helen interrupts, “Alicia’s not with you? We haven’t seen each other in, oh, ages.”
“I asked her to come, but she apologized. Things to do.”
“That’s Hundredfield for you. Eats you up, that place.” Helen touches Rory on the arm. “Come and have dinner while you’re here. Give me a call.”
Jesse clears her throat.
“Of course! Mum, I should have introduced you properly. So, this is Jesse. Jesse Marley.” It’s rare for Rory to be flustered.
“Nice to meet you.” Helen Brandon holds her hand out and Jesse goes to grasp it.
But Helen swings to point at the growing queue stacking up around the register. “Rachel!”
It’s odd to be left standing with an outstretched hand.
“Sorry. You’re a patient, I gather?” Those cool eyes assess Jesse quite blatantly.
How did you know that? “Yes. I’m recovering from an accident.” Jesse lifts the sling slightly. She feels foolish. As if she’s pretending. “But I’m researching too, while I’m here.”
“We have a very rich history in the borders, of course.” Helen’s tone says she’s only mildly interested; she’s had history conversations with tourists countless times.
“Yes. In fact, at the library they said I should talk to you.”
“Oh?” Helen’s sweeping the busy room with her eyes. “Rory, d’you know where Mack is?”
Jesse feels like she’s talking to the wind. “I’m looking for my birth parents, actually. I was told you’re an expert in local history?”
“Really?” Helen puts her head to one side when she turns back. She doesn’t say she’s not. “What’s your family name?”
“Green.”
“There was only one lot of garlic prawns. You’ve overcharged us.” A man’s voice, quite aggressive, cuts through.
“Please do excuse me.” A duck of the head, and Helen strides away to the cash register.
Rory glances at the embarrassed girl beside him. “Um, sorry about that.”
“It’s fine. She’s busy.” But Jesse’s perplexed. Was she just snubbed?
They watch Helen dispensing efficient charm as she takes money and provides receipts as Rachel’s banished to clearing tables. Outside, rain assaults the windows of the pub, blurring the view of the Beast Market.
“I can drive the car to the front door if you’d like?” Sometime in the past, a cast-iron-and-glass portico has been added to the ancient building.
Jesse’s look is sardonic. “I’m not going to melt, Rory. It’s just a bit of water.”
“Okay. One, two, three, go!” He rushes her from the pub to the car but, in haste, drops the keys in a puddle, and they’re both wet by the time they fall into the front seats.
“Been a top day for me so far, I’d say. What about you?”
“Excellent.” Jesse is just as good at irony.
20
TELL THEM I have ridden to the village—if they ask.” Foot in the stirrup, I swung a leg over the stallion’s back.
Hurrying to saddle the mare I had asked for, Dikon nodded. He did not look at me.
I punched him lightly on the arm. “I have friends there, boy. And it is the season for a little, ah, joy.” He would think I was visiting Rosa. If I did not return before dawn, the lie might win me time.
But Dikon’s manners were good. He did not ask why the extra horse was needed if I was visiting “friends.”
I threw him a groat and, nudging Helios forward, gathered the pack rein so the mare walked close behind.
The portcullis was raised for me, and once across the river, I booted the stallion to a fast canter and allowed the mare more room on the rein. Helios had left the stable with bad grace, but the night air woke him and now he ran willingly enough.
Not one light shone from the houses as we rushed through the village; we were gone so fast only a lone dog heard us pass. But as he barked, another joined in and then another, until it seemed a pack of wolves howled on our scent. Most would be chained. Most. But those that were not, we could outrun. Dogs did not worry me. My concern was that I was one man alone, riding at night. One man against a pack of wolf heads and runaways who hated the Dieudonné; if they were there. If they heard me.
The ride was a blur. Where the path was clear, I pushed both animals to speeds I knew were foolish. I did not allow myself to think I would fail. I could not fail.
Not fail. Not fail. Not fail. The words were beaten out by the rhythm of the hooves, and I do not know if one hour or two passed before I saw the priory wall. When I reined to a stop, plainchant came to me through the frozen air. The monks must be singing lauds. There was still time.
“Open!” I beat on the closed gate with my fist. The mailed glove struck hard.
Wind, as it came and went, swept men’s voices closer and then away, but none answered the summons.
“Open. Or I will destroy the door.” That was presumptuous. I did not have the means or the intention; it was good the brothers did not know that.
The cover of a barred port slid back, and a face peered out. The boy was young. And frightened. “Sir, I cannot let you in. The brothers are—”
I leaned down from my horse. “Fetch the prior, boy. Tell him Bayard de Dieudonné is here. And if he does not come quickly, tell him my brother is close behind with his men. Lord Godefroi. Be sure and tell him both our names.”
The boy gasped and the door port closed with a slam.
The horses stamped in the cold, steam rising from their hides. If the prior did not come soon, it might truly mean I must find a way of breaking the door down.
“What do you want?” The port had creaked open again and light shone through. This was a very different face. The size and shape of the risen moon, it seemed to me the prior was too well fed to be a holy man.
“Prior.” I bowed from the saddle. “Hundredfield has need of a priest.” Helios was cooling and I spurred him in a tight circle, dragging the mare behind.
“Father Matthias has the cure of souls at the castle.” The man did not look at me.
I spoke politely. “Perhaps the novice did not tell you my name. I am Bayard de Dieudonné, brother of the lord of Hundredfield. I regret to tell you that the man you speak of is a thief. He despoiled the altar that was in his charge.” I crossed myself. “If those holy furnishings are returned to me tonight, and if you provide me with another priest, perhaps he will escape with his life.” I shrugged.
The voice of the prior wavered. “I do not understand what you are talking about. Evil is truly abroad in these hard times, but your soul must be corrupted for you to slander a servant of God in this way. I cannot grant the services of another priest while . . .”
So, Matthias had told the prior.
/> I jumped from the saddle and launched myself at the port, shoving my hand through too quickly for the man to duck. “My brother asks for your help, and he does so courteously. Whatever you might have heard, it is your obligation to provide our house with a priest. If you do not, the endowment of this priory will be removed immediately and given to others more prepared to provide these sacred duties.” I squeezed my hand around his throat and with the other put the prick of my dagger beside an eye. “I have been out of my bed for a very, very long time, Prior. Perhaps, from exhaustion, my hand will slip. That would be sad.” Another squeeze and the man gurgled. He could not speak, but I heard a chain rattle and felt the door move.
I was never so quick in my life. The prior might be white lard, but he was a big man and perhaps some muscle still hid in those arms; he might try to slam the door on the hand that held the knife.
A neat twist, however, and I was through; and this time, though I dropped the grip on the prior’s throat, I had the steel at his kidneys and an arm around his neck.
I said politely, “Perhaps I should meet the candidate you will propose. Just to be certain he is suitable.”
That white face flushed. Moonlight made it black. “The bishop at Durham—”
“—is a personal friend of my family, as is the king in London. Perhaps, if it worries you, you may also enjoy a conversation with the warden of the East March? Baron Percy is our liege lord, and therefore yours.”
“My allegiance is to Rome. Only the pope is my mortal overlord.” A flash of courage.
I allowed myself to yawn. “I should counsel you, Prior. There is a choice here: provide me with an obedient priest and return the furnishings of our altar, and you and the priory will not be harmed. Disobey me in this, and I will call my brother and his men. And perhaps you will die, as will Matthias. I warned him of this; perhaps he did not properly convey the caution.” The point of the knife was sharp and cut through the man’s habit. I allowed it to sink into the fat of his lower back, though only a little way.
The prior gasped. “By these actions you damn yourself.”
I was weary. “Lord Godefroi, as you know from Matthias, is not a reasonable man. Neither am I, though, perhaps, I am kinder than he. And dead men have nothing to say. Do not forget that.”
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