“Come with me,” she said impulsively. They had not ridden alone together since their visit to the Rock of Cashel.
He hesitated, which surprised her. Ailis asked, “Do you not want to see Dane in our hands as much as I do? I know you were not lying about how much you hate him.”
Without answering the question, he smiled. “I’ll come.”
They raced their horses at the beginning—not long, not enough to tire them too early—before settling to a slower pace along the Suir River. As Ailis watched the play of silver water, she felt her nerves begin to settle. She had fantasized about this for so long it hardly felt real. No, not fantasized. Planned for. Worked toward. Sometimes she thought every decision she’d made in the last twelve years had been aimed solely at Oliver Dane. What would she do when it was over?
Impulsively, she repeated that last question to Stephen. He had a blunt answer. “What will you do? You will live, Ailis. In whatever manner you find best.”
She drew her horse level with his, at a walking pace that allowed them to look at each other. “I think I know the first thing I shall do when it is over. It will require you, I’m afraid. Though perhaps the activity will be to your liking as well.”
The corner of his eye twitched. She had learned to read those twitches of his. They usually meant he was more moved than he cared to admit. Englishmen, she mused. So painfully polite and reserved.
But this particular Englishman was also painfully honest. “There is nothing in the world I want more,” he said simply. “But perhaps we can also talk. When the business with Dane is over. There are things I would say to you before…”
Her eyebrows shot up in amusement at his fumbling. “Before bedding me? Talk was not quite what I had in mind—but I suppose I can endure the conversation for anticipation of what will follow.”
Stephen looked away—odd, since it was usually she who broke contact between them. She almost asked him why. Then she saw his chin come up and his body straighten in alert. “Riders,” he said.
Instantly, she swung her gaze to where he looked across the river and saw, as he did, the outlines of men and the dust they kicked up on the road. She held unnaturally still, straining to catch details…
Ailis was the first to be certain. And why not? She had spent a lifetime watching the riders of Clan Kavanaugh. “It’s Diarmid,” she said, surprised that her voice sounded so flat. Normal. As though this were nothing more than another raid. “And I count the same number of men he rode out with. Doesn’t look as though we lost anyone.”
There was, however, one additional rider. Kept in the middle of her horsemen, riding upright but, Ailis wagered, with hands tied and reins in the control of one of her own men. They had got him. Oliver Dane.
Stephen had seen the same things. “Go and meet them,” he said urgently. “I’ll ride back and alert the castle.”
“Come with me,” she said. “I thought that’s why we rode out.”
“That is why I brought you out. This is for you, Ailis. This is all your clever doing. I came in rather late to the Dane vendetta—all I need to know is that he is punished. I don’t need to do it myself. Not the way you do.”
She tried to read his face but failed. As for herself, she felt as though every bone in her body was ready to leap through her skin in anticipation of facing her enemy. What other man would give her this gift?
If she could have reached him for a kiss, she would have. Instead, she blazed a smile of triumph and said, “Tell Father Byrne to have the chains ready.”
Stephen turned his horse and was gone. Ailis took a moment to steady her hands, trembling on the reins, then set off to meet her men.
Diarmid hailed her, his expressive face plainly glad to see her alone. He must have marked the rider at her side in the distance and guessed it was Stephen. “No difficulty?” she called as she approached.
“None. Worked just as you said. Killed one of his men in the fight, brought him in.”
“Let me through,” Ailis commanded.
Her men obeyed, and Ailis and her mount picked their way through the guards until she was facing Oliver Dane for the first time in twelve years.
He had aged, naturally, but the figure was the same. Rough-hewn and suspicious, the brown hair salted with gray and the deep-set eyes surrounded by more lines. Ailis felt an instinctive flood of revulsion and, disturbingly, terror. She swallowed it down. He can’t touch me, he can’t hurt me, I have all the power now…
Astonishingly, Dane smiled. The same mocking expression she had seen from him a hundred times. “Little Ailis.” His voice had not changed at all, gravelly and deep with contempt threaded through it. “You’ve grown up even more marvelous than I expected.”
One of her guards moved to strike him, but Ailis raised a hand of restraint. She did not need to be protected. “As I recall, you are not overfond of grown women. You like them young.”
“So much more pliable,” Dane agreed. “Like you. Never a complaint, never a word but what I taught you—and such an apt pupil. How many men have had cause to thank me these last years for my well-tutored concubine?”
This time she did not restrain her men. He was struck from both sides before Ailis called them off. “You should know Irish women better,” she said conversationally to the bruised but stubbornly upright Dane. “We may hold our tongues, but only to plot more creatively. Vengeance is best served cold…and I’ve had many wintry years to hone mine.”
She jerked her horse around and moved to the front with Diarmid. “Let’s go.”
It had begun.
—
With Oliver Dane at Cahir, the very air of the castle felt aflame. It was as though each person in it moved with a keyed up awareness of what was at stake. It could not have been easy for Ailis to allow her personal secret to be aired; Stephen heard only the edges of whispers, but he knew it was all over the household that here was the man who had fathered Liadan.
He had expected to feel, at the least, nervous—not to say frantic—at the knowledge that a man who could so easily unmask him lay within the castle walls. But calm had settled over him as he’d watched Ailis’s men returning with their prisoner. All had gone according to plan. The only thing he had to do was stay out of Dane’s way—which shouldn’t be a problem considering the man was locked up. Not in a dungeon or even belowground, for Father Byrne had insisted he be kept with at least the barest courtesies of a prisoner held for ransom. Only Byrne himself and Ailis held a key to the windowless chamber where Dane was confined.
The trouble began that very first night. Stephen had been telling stories to Liadan of the Green Man and the Wild Hunt and he finally left her in the hands of her excitable Irish nurse. Maisie asked if she could walk with him toward the Great Hall.
“Something on your mind?” he asked, surprised.
“Peter Martin arrived an hour ago.”
Stephen blinked. “Did he?” he asked blandly. “Interesting timing.”
“Isn’t it?”
What was it about this slip of a girl that kept him so off balance? He covered it, he hoped, by saying, “I imagine he’ll be sent away as soon as it’s light. Perhaps he’ll even be used to take the ransom demands.”
She hesitated, but he’d known her long enough to know that propriety would never stop her observations. Sure enough, she asked, “Are you certain Ailis will hold Dane to ransom?”
“Considering she already has him in hold…” He trailed off, for what had started as a teasing answer was stopped by Maisie’s serious expression. “You think she won’t?”
“I think she wanted Dane in her hands. I’m not sure even she knew for certain why until now.”
“That’s taking enigmatic a bit far.”
“Is it?” Maisie quirked her lips, not so much a smile as a marker of her argument as she tipped her head down the last few stairs. “Listen.”
Stephen stopped and listened. Damn it, Maisie was right. There was shouting coming from a nearby chamber. He would hav
e known the quality of Ailis’s voice anywhere. Biting off a curse, he strode to the half-open door through which could be heard both Ailis and, shockingly with a similar raised voice, Father Byrne.
Maisie did not follow.
He pushed open the door, which was blocked by Diarmid. The captain of the guard scowled and tried to shove Stephen back out, but Ailis commanded, “Let him in. And shut the door this time!”
Stephen had never seen Father Byrne flushed and ruffled. The priest’s thick white hair looked as though he’d been running his hands through it in frustration; it stood up in tufts around his ears. Behind him, leaning against a deep windowsill, lounged Peter Martin. Walsingham’s spy met Stephen’s eyes, then looked away.
“What’s going on?” Stephen asked warily.
“We are having a debate on the nature and quality of leadership.” Ailis’s voice was uneven, a rare sign of emotion. “Father Byrne seems to be under the illusion that I lead only with his gracious acquiescence. I, naturally, dispute that position.”
Since that told him little of substance, Stephen turned to Father Byrne. “What is going on?”
“There have been no terms set for ransom of the prisoner. And no plans, as I have just discovered, for doing so.”
Despite himself, Stephen shot a glance at Peter Martin once more. They should not be having this conversation in front of a man who could betray them all with a word. But there was no help for it.
“We have to ransom Dane,” Stephen insisted. “Make his life miserable in the meantime, but you can’t afford to hold him indefinitely. Someone will come looking.” Sooner rather than later, if Martin had his way. Could Stephen possibly make Ailis keep the spy at Cahir Castle until this was over without betraying either of them?
“That someone will be disappointed, for there will be no Oliver Dane to find,” Ailis said. “At least, not living.”
Damn it all to hell. Stephen closed his eyes to gather himself, then looked at Ailis and spoke to her as though they were alone. “You cannot kill him. You know you cannot.”
“Who are you to tell me what to do, Englishman?” she spat. “I thought you wanted him dead as well.”
“And if we lived in an ideal world, we could kill him. But we live in this world, Ailis. If you kill a man like Oliver Dane, you will bring down wrath upon your head you cannot imagine.”
“We can deal with Ormond.”
Father Byrne snorted, clearly about to dispute her blithe assessment of their military readiness.
Stephen spoke over him. “I don’t just mean the Earl of Ormond. You’re mad if you don’t realize that killing one of her landowners, one of her captains, will bring Queen Elizabeth’s fury down upon you in full force. She will send her finest soldiers to destroy you for the slap to her pride.”
Eyes bright and cheeks flushed, Ailis laughed. “I think you’re imagining things.”
I wish I were, he swore silently. I wish I could tell you that I know this queen, know her well enough to predict her rage. And Walsingham will encourage it. Killing Dane will be the spark that will see Clan Kavanaugh burned to bare earth.
Ailis was confident of her position. “Father Byrne, I appreciate your concerns. But there can only be one voice at the end of the day. And that voice is mine. Are we clear?”
Byrne shot a glance at Diarmid, standing behind Stephen. His point was self-evident: Ailis ruled only so long as she had the support of armed men. And though Stephen had no cause to like Diarmid and knew that Ailis’s plan was self-destructive, he felt a moment’s relief at the pleasure on Ailis’s face when the captain of the guard said solidly, “I do as she commands.”
Knowing when he had been beaten, at least for the moment, Father Byrne pleaded, “Promise to do nothing precipitate. Allow tempers to cool before going forward.”
“Don’t fret, Father. Killing him immediately would be too kind. I have plans for Dane before that.”
The priest’s lips tightened, but he managed to nod before escaping the chamber. Peter Martin eyed each of them thoughtfully before following. At least, Stephen thought, Martin left under the impression that his fellow spy had been arguing on the English side.
With Byrne gone, Ailis said, “Thank you, Diarmid. I will remember this.”
Then, as though Diarmid were not still standing there, Ailis came to Stephen, her face blazing in joy. “Don’t worry,” she told him. “I know what I’m doing. When Dane is dead, then I will be free.”
She kissed him then and there, with Diarmid glowering behind them so hard Stephen imagined he could feel the fire in the Irishman’s eyes boring through him.
We are all going to regret this. Stephen knew it, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Much.
DIARY OF MINUETTE COURTENAY
13 August 1582
Hampton Court
Anabel has passed through the worst of the fever. The rash continues, but I am confident now in her healing. At least in the immediate sense. She seems to have been—frightened? humbled?—by this illness. Perhaps it is only that she is still so weak. It takes time to recover, as I recall all too well from my own desperate illness so long ago at Hampton Court. Of course, mine was due to poison, but perhaps that made it easier for me. I had an actual enemy to focus on. Anabel has only fate, or God.
Elizabeth allowed us to take charge of the sickroom. Both Lucette and Pippa are capable nurses, not prone to hysterics or distaste at any task, and it comforted Anabel to have them near her.
But it was Kit’s presence that made all the difference. Of course he could not stay in the sickroom, but I let him in twice a day to see her. Even when she wandered in fever hallucinations those first two days, Kit could always calm her. She would fix her eyes on him as though he were the only constant in a dangerously shifting world.
I know that expression. It is the one I first gave Dominic when I was not much younger than Anabel.
—
The stalemate between Ailis and Father Byrne did not abate over the course of three days. As long as Diarmid’s loyalty held, Ailis knew she would get her way. Stephen, after his first disagreement with her position, kept his mouth shut on the matter. Despite his ability to keep his emotions off his face, Ailis knew he thought her wrong. But no Englishman, not even one as surprising and appealing as Stephen Wyatt, was going to come to Ireland and tell her how to avenge her honour.
With Dane at Cahir Castle, her private hours with Stephen in her chamber came to an end. She was wholly absorbed in her enemy.
At first it was enough simply to know she had him in chains. She did not see him the first days, content to let Diarmid in once a day with bread and ale. If Diarmid took out his resentments on Dane, she didn’t ask. He knew her—he knew how far he could abuse the prisoner without going too far
Finally, Ailis was ready. Stephen didn’t say a word at her announcement, but Diarmid followed her to the makeshift prison chamber with the intention of following her in. When Ailis forbid it, he scowled impressively.
“It’s not safe,” he said bluntly.
“Is he in chains?” she asked.
“He is.”
“And as I understand, only I and Father Byrne hold a key to those chains. As long as you put them on correctly, all I need do is stay out of his reach.”
Diarmid gave in with bad grace, particularly when she insisted on shutting the door behind her. Just because word of what Dane had done to her had circled through her household didn’t mean she wanted details shared with all and sundry. And who could guess what Dane would say?
She could guess it would be offensive; he did not disappoint. “Your men are loyal. How many of my tricks have you used to keep them that way?”
“Perhaps Englishmen need inducements to loyalty—Irishmen are different.”
His smile…she had forgotten how that smile could crawl beneath her skin. “Not so very different. If you were ugly or old, these men would not be so quick to listen. Certainly not that thick-headed captain of the guard. He wants from you
what any man wants.”
They had no true prison cells at Cahir, at least none that were in proper repair. The chamber that held Dane was little more than an empty storeroom on the top floor of the rectangular central castle. The outer wall was stone and had no window. To the right of the door—well out of his chained reach—a small torch flared in its bracket. Other than a bucket for his sanitary needs, the chamber was empty. Dane sat on the bare floorboards, back against the wall, wrists and ankles circled with iron and chains fixed firmly to the wall. He would be able to stand—just—but could not move more than a foot in any direction.
Still, he managed to look at her with amusement and contempt, and to control the conversation as he always had. “Come to see your handiwork?” he asked. “Or to engage in a battle of wits? You may be too old now for my tastes, but your mind seems keen enough. I wouldn’t mind engaging in a debate.”
“I don’t care what you want. I care about what you owe. There is someone at Cahir Castle who merits an introduction to you.”
He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Some man you have your eye on? You wish me to provide a testimonial as to your skills?”
“Your daughter.”
That shut him up…for all of five seconds. “You couldn’t even manage a son?”
“Would you have cared?”
“No. Irish brats are of no interest to me.”
“Good. Because I consider the only claim in play here is hers. She is owed the chance to meet her English father. Once.”
“I’m not going anywhere just now.” He rattled his wrist chains and smiled.
“She will come with guards of her choosing. The moment you insult her or say anything to distress her, those men will do more than blacken your jaw.”
He leaned his head against the wall behind him, eyes closed. “I liked you better when you kept your mouth shut and your legs open,” he murmured.
She swept out, refusing to be baited. “Stay here,” she commanded Diarmid outside the door.
Liadan and Maisie had claimed one of the tower chambers just off the Great Hall for their schoolroom. Once as bare as Dane’s prison cell, the two of them had softened and warmed the space with carpets and tapestries scavenged from around the castle. With the stacks of books and parchment and ink scattered across the round table, it was by far the coziest space in the castle.
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