He felt his heart skip and a pressure on his chest, a tightness that made it difficult to breathe.
I’m only a painter. I’m nothing to her.
He tried to swallow and nearly choked on his own saliva. I’ve never lost a subject before, he thought stupidly, as if that mattered, as if it ever had. Never failed to complete a project.
Sherwood stared at the empty space before the desk, at the marks he’d put on the floor to show Nysa where to place her feet.
It’s like she’s dead. The thought crashed in. What if she is?
He shook his head. No, the castle would be thrown into chaos. She just isn’t coming. She isn’t coming because she doesn’t—
The familiar swoosh-swoosh of the brocade gown preceded her entrance. Lady Dulgath entered without acknowledging his presence. She whirled on her mark, spinning on her left heel. After looping the fox over her neck, she clasped the riding gloves in her hand. Her eyes focused on the chandelier.
“Chin up, just a tad more,” he said softly.
She tilted her head without a word.
Outside the study’s door that Nysa had left open, Chamberlain Wells could be heard saying, “She’s indisposed at the moment. But…well, let me inquire. I suppose she might see you. Wait here.”
That was Wells’s way of saying She’s only wasting time with that infernal painter like she does every morning. Sherwood didn’t have a problem with Wells, which was good, since he ran the castle and could make the artist’s life miserable if he wanted to. That said, he was of the same mind as many in his position, believing a painter’s time to be worthless.
Lady Dulgath allowed herself a glance at Sherwood. He smiled. She smiled back. His heart vaulted a hurdle, forcing him to take a deep breath. He nearly lost the presence of mind to pull the cloth over the painting before Thorbert Wells entered.
“My lady,” Wells said, pausing at the doorway to bow.
Thorbert Wells was a rotund man with a fondness for expensive belts that neither he, nor anyone facing him, ever saw. The chamberlain’s girth also hid his shoes, which that morning were a fine pair with soft leather uppers. Wells rarely wore the same pair twice in a week. He owned so many shoes that Sherwood had once asked Wells’s manservant if he ever placed a mixed pair on the chamberlain’s feet to see if he noticed. This was the sort of joke that gained Sherwood access to the kitchens at night and a swig from the hidden jug of barley whiskey kept under the floorboards.
“Sheriff Knox has some gentlemen here to meet with you,” Wells said.
“Gentlemen?” she asked.
“Ah…yes, concerning the recent unpleasantness.” Wells had a problem saying the words assassination, murder, or killing. Even when it came to butchering quails to eat, he was apt to say, The birds will be dressed for dinner, as if the fowl shared his penchant for belts and shoes and would be seated at the table.
Again, the lady focused on Sherwood, and he was certain she was looking for—perhaps not permission, but understanding. Sherwood’s heart climbed up his throat, as if searching for a better view of this extraordinary moment.
“Very well, let them in,” Lady Dulgath said with just enough irritation in her voice to suggest that interrupting their time together was a disappointment.
Wells bowed again, then waved three men in.
Sherwood recognized Sheriff Knox, although he hadn’t had cause to speak with the man. Still, he had seen him around, especially of late, and Hugh Knox wasn’t the kind of person one overlooked—he was the sort you crossed the street to avoid. Harsh, with a tendency to glare, he wore his blond hair tied back and had a red sash across his chest and wrapped around his waist. Edged in gold, the garment was the mark of his office. He wasn’t from Dulgath. The color of his hair and stubble told that story. The habitual squint of his eyes and sneer on his lips told the rest. This wasn’t a genteel man. He wore two sabers and steel shoulder guards over a thick three-quarter-length leather gambeson. That day he looked tired, understandable, given the recent unpleasantness. The man charged with enforcing the law and protecting the countess couldn’t be sleeping well.
A pair of men accompanied him, neither a native of Maranon.
One was tall, with a friendly smile and a relaxed stride, acting as if he were meeting a familiar bartender instead of a countess. He was dressed in worn leather and had dull buckles on three separate belts—none of which Thorbert Wells would have been caught in if his trousers depended on them—and a long cloak tossed jauntily over one shoulder. He one-upped Knox by wearing three swords. The one on his back looked big enough to fell a tree. The other man, a few inches shorter, might have been a woman for all Sherwood could tell. He was tented inside a dark cloak, hood up and his hands lost in its folds. Only a sharp nose, thin lips, and a pale chin presented themselves.
“Your Ladyship.” Knox went down to one knee. Rising, he gestured to the others. “This is Royce Melborn and Hadrian Blackwater of Melengar. They come highly recommended by Viscount Winslow of Colnora and Bishop Parnell.”
“Highly recommended for what?” she asked, tilting her head from side to side, studying the two.
Knox hesitated and glanced awkwardly at Wells and Sherwood. “Perhaps we could speak privately?”
“Is it a secret?” she asked.
“In a way, milady.”
“They are here to protect me, yes?”
“No,” the one in the hood said without so much as a pleasant tone, much less a milady.
The countess raised her head to stare down her nose at him, no attempt to hide her irritation. “Then why are you here?”
“We’ve been hired to find the best ways to kill you.”
Sherwood dropped his favorite brush, adding to the woes of its bristles. Wells clamped a meaty hand over his mouth, making his big cheeks swell as they flushed red. Knox closed his eyes, tilted his head up toward the ceiling, and opened his mouth but said nothing.
Lady Dulgath folded her arms under the head of the fox and raised an elegant brow. “Really? And how much are you being paid? Hadrian—is it?”
The hood shook. “Name’s Royce, and that information is between me and my employer.”
This time even Knox brought a hand to his face.
“Pardon me,” the taller one with the swords butted in, “my lady, I’m Hadrian.” He offered a gracious bow. “I hope you’ll excuse my partner. He’s not accustomed to speaking to…people…ah, people such as yourself. You see, we were asked to evaluate security measures to see if there are ways to improve them. Royce is an expert at finding flaws, particularly when it comes to threats of assassination.”
The chamberlain cringed at the mention of the “a” word.
“So you believe my life is in danger. That’s why you’re here?”
“Don’t you think your life is in danger?” Royce asked.
“Not particularly.” She expelled a huff of air, pivoted on her left heel, and turned her back to them. She took three steps toward the window, stopped, then spun on the same heel back to face them once more. “If I did, would I allow a man with three swords and another shrouded in a hood to enter my private study?”
Royce shrugged. “I just thought you were stup—”
“Royce!” Hadrian snapped. In a milder tone, he continued, “My friend is very tired from our long trip. Now, if no one is trying to harm you, there’s no reason for us to be here. But since we’ve traveled so far, and on the expectation of payment, I hope you won’t begrudge us the opportunity to at least tour Dulgath. Neither of us has been to Maranon before. Your corner of it is most beautiful.”
Lady Dulgath continued to stare at Royce. “Draw back your hood,” she ordered.
Hadrian laid a hand on the other one’s shoulder and whispered something to him.
“Is there a problem?” the lady asked.
“I’m here to do a job,” Royce said. “Not entertain you.”
“You’ve come to my castle unbidden and have failed to show any sign of decorum or decency. Wou
ld you rather entertain me from my dungeon?”
Royce sneered. “Would you rather I—”
Sherwood didn’t know why he did it. If anything, it was because he couldn’t abide the words that were likely to finish that sentence. He grabbed the nearest bottle of pigment and hurled it at the man. The artist was to the side and slightly behind the visitors when the bottle flew. With his hood up, Sherwood couldn’t see the man’s eyes, and he knew Melborn couldn’t have seen him. The bottle was small but heavy due to its thick glass—as ideal for throwing as a polished river stone. His aim was perfect. The container should have cracked against the hooded man’s head, but it didn’t. Instead, a slender hand darted from the dark cloak and snatched the bottle from the air. Then the hood turned, and Sherwood felt like a mouse who’d caught the attention of a hawk.
The taller man stepped in again. “Perhaps we should attempt this meeting at another time?”
Wells’s face was so red it neared purple. “I think you are right. I shouldn’t have allowed this intrusion in the first place. Gentlemen, if you will?” He shooed at them, his large sleeves flapping with the effort.
Lady Dulgath said nothing, but she continued to stare at the hooded man as he and the others left.
Only then did Sherwood look down at his tray. He was sickened to realize he’d thrown the bottle of Beyond the Sea.
Chapter Five
Castle Dulgath
Castle Dulgath consisted of three unadorned square towers perched on a precipice of stone. A small rock wall bordered the front, while the backside was a sheer and mortal drop to the sea. Inaccessible except to seagulls, the promontory offered limited space for luxury. The castle’s foundation took up most of the narrow point, leaving little room for the courtyard, which had been foolishly given over to uncontrolled azalea bushes. They grew to a surprising size along the stone wall. And there, among the pink and purple blooms, Royce, Hadrian, and Knox found Pastor Payne, waiting.
“How did it go?” he asked.
“Not well,” Hadrian said.
“You should have expected as much,” Royce added, shaking his fist that still held the bottle of pigment. He hadn’t meant it as a rebuke, but he was irritated.
The pastor took a step back into the blossoms, his eyes big as goose eggs.
“Perhaps you should have come in with us,” Sheriff Knox said. “Why didn’t you?”
“Lady Dulgath isn’t what I would call a supporter of the Church of Nyphron. Since my arrival, I’ve tried to keep a safe distance between us. Is there a problem?”
“It’s all right,” Sheriff Knox said. He was calm, but wore a sour look. Then he turned to Royce, and asked, “You don’t need her cooperation to do this, right?”
Royce nearly laughed but wasn’t in the mood, even in the face of such absurdity. “You might be surprised to learn, Sheriff, that I never obtain the cooperation of those I plot to murder.”
Everyone stared at him in a palpable silence. Even Hadrian had his brows up.
Royce rolled his eyes. “I didn’t mean—oh, never mind.” He turned to Payne. “Look, are you planning to pay me extra to actually kill her?”
The pastor took another step into the bushes, the blossoms starting to swallow him. “No—of course not!”
Royce looked back at the others. “There—see?” Remembering the young woman’s glare as she threatened to imprison him, he glanced back at Payne. “Are you sure?”
“You’re here to protect Countess Dulgath!” Knox admonished, spraying Royce with saliva as he spat out the word protect.
“Might have told her that.” Royce leaned toward Hadrian and said, “What did I tell you about spoiled nobles—spoiled noble women? Maybe we should forget this whole thing.”
“If you do,” Payne put in, “I’m sure the church will insist on withholding payment, including the funds for travel expenses. Since you don’t need to interact with the lady, why not just follow my example and keep your distance? Speaking of which…” The pastor looked toward the castle entrance nervously. “I’ve done my part, and there’s little else I can accomplish here. I should be going.” Payne bowed curtly, and, with his usual stale smile, withdrew.
As the pastor exited the courtyard, Hadrian turned to Knox. “It couldn’t hurt to look around a bit, right?” He was standing closer than usual to Royce, with that everything-is-going-to-be-all-right smile on his face. “Why not fill us in on some of the failed attempts. What exactly has happened? What made you think the countess is in danger?”
“I’ll show you.” Knox waved for them to follow.
The sheriff led them up a set of stone steps to one of the rear parapets. Royce scanned the length. No guards, no sentries posted. Down in the courtyard, not a single soul was visible. Tilting his head up, he noted the numerous windows, tiny dark holes in the face of the rising towers. I could walk in on a cloudless day, dressed to kill, and no one would notice.
“Here.” Knox pointed to a missing merlon.
Royce spotted grooves and gouges where someone had used a pry bar. Peering over, he saw the road hugged the wall just below. The square, two-foot block of stone stood out pale against the green grass, lying where it had rolled after crashing down.
“Missed Her Ladyship by inches,” Knox said.
After giving Royce some time to examine the area more closely, Knox led them back down to the grassy common.
“What time of day?” Royce asked.
“Pardon?” Knox replied.
Royce rolled his eyes. “When the great big rock nearly crushed the pretty lady, what time of day was it?”
“Oh, midday or thereabouts.”
“And no one saw anything?” Hadrian asked.
Knox shook his head and spread out his arms. “As you can see, Castle Dulgath isn’t a busy place.”
“Nor very well protected,” Royce added with an insinuating glare.
“You’re just looking to make all kinds of new friends today, aren’t you?” The sheriff licked his lips. “You know, I told the bishop we didn’t need outsiders coming here to tell me how to do my job. Dulgath isn’t Colnora. We don’t have people like you around here. This is a peaceful province.”
“Really? Then why am I here?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“I imagine that’s a list that’s grown uncomfortably long by now, hasn’t it?”
Knox reached to shove Royce, who took a step back and to the side, causing the sheriff to fall on his face. “You son of a bitch…” The sheriff came off the ground with a look in his eye that told a story.
Hadrian read it as well and moved in to block. He had a tendency to do that—get in the way—but this time Royce appreciated it. He hadn’t traveled four days and ridden a hundred and twenty-five miles to kill a province sheriff. Royce wasn’t sure Hadrian would be able to douse the sparked fire, so he shifted the bottle of pigment to his left hand then reached inside his cloak for the handle of Alverstone, his dagger.
“Sheriff Knox!” a man called from the front doors of the castle. He walked quickly toward them. “Why don’t you introduce me to your new friends?”
Knox violently brushed bits of grass off himself while baring his teeth at Royce.
“Hugh, please!” the man shouted, breaking into a jog. “Don’t be rude. It’s not proper to introduce oneself.”
The sheriff took a breath, then another. “This is Lord Christopher Fawkes, second cousin to King Vincent.”
“Hello, gentlemen!” the lord exclaimed in a jubilant voice. He clapped his hands together and rubbed briskly, giving the appearance of a man about to embark on some great work. “You must be Royce Melborn.” He extended a hand, then drew it back, exchanging it for a raised finger. “Ah—no, you’re probably not the handshake sort, are you? That’s fine. Artists need to be mindful of their tools.”
He turned to Hadrian. “But you’re a different sort altogether. Mister Hadrian Blackwater, isn’t it?” The hand went out again and, once clasped, Lord Fawkes pumped it
soundly two times, then clapped Hadrian on the shoulder. “Nice sword! Spadone, right? Quite the antique. Don’t see many of those anymore. My friend Sir Gilbert—he’s the senior knight of my cousin Vincent—never uses one. Says they went out of style centuries ago…back when knights actually fought in wars!”
Fawkes laughed loudly at his own joke.
No one else did, but the lord either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “Oh, Hugh, these two are a wedge of sharp cheese, aren’t they? Please, allow me to give them the tour. I’m certain you have better things to do, don’t you?” The last two words lacked the gaiety of the others, and were punctuated with authority.
“Certainly, Your Lordship.” Knox gave Royce a parting scowl. He adjusted his sword belt and strode toward the front gate.
“Excitable fellow, that Hugh,” Fawkes said, his tone quieter, calmer. “Hails from somewhere in Warric, if memory serves. I’m sure he has a bloodstained past. He’s hiding down here, I imagine.”
Royce’s eyes followed Knox’s back until he disappeared from sight.
“So, you are the men Bishop Parnell has picked to properly plan Lady Dulgath’s murder.” Fawkes grinned and winked at them.
Royce wasn’t certain if the man was a fool or a genius. He displayed signs of both. Neither made him comfortable, but over the course of his life he’d been at ease with only four people. None of them was a well-dressed noble with a loud voice who winked. No one ever winked at Royce. The fact that this man, with his black goatee and expressive hands, did so was a curiosity worthy of further scrutiny.
“It’s all right,” Fawkes told them, spreading his hands out and fanning his fingers. “I’m privy to what’s going on. Brilliant, really, like that adage about fighting fire with fire. And from what I’ve heard, you two know how to handle yourselves in heated situations.” He moved in closer. Lowering his voice, he added, “Rumors say a rather high-profile noble was assassinated up north. I suspect you know a little about that.”
The Death of Dulgath Page 6
