English, Elizabeth (2 page)

"I
see," Robert said, sitting down before the fire. "Well, I don't
suppose any of the Kirallens have seen Maude face to face...."

Darnley
shook his head, droplets flying from his russet hair. "Oh, they have spies
here, just as I have there, but Maude's hardly been at home these past three
years. I'll stake my life they know no more of her than her size and the color
of her hair."

"Kirallen
is no fool," Robert protested. "Some lass from the vill wouldn't deceive
him for a moment. But even if she did, it couldn't last forever. He's bound to
find out soon or late."

"I
don't need much time. Just long enough to prepare for war. Good God, Robert,
d'ye think I'd let this insult go unpunished? We have a month to start with,
but it won't be enough. I'll go to Percy and ask for men—you'll have to help me
think up some tale, for he's said already he's finished with the Kirallen
business."

"No,
Northumberland can't afford to be involved," Robert said, instantly
diverted by the workings of royal policy. "Now that we're at peace with
Scotland—and our lord is so thick with Lancaster—he doesn't dare to stir up
trouble on the border over a family matter. But I can think of
something..."

"Say
another month—six weeks at most—and I'll have what I need. Nixon will help, I
think. He and Kirallen have been at odds. I'll quarter the men there until I'm
ready. And then..." Darnley grinned with a wolfish flash of teeth.
"I'll fall on the Kirallens like the wrath of God when they're least
expecting it."

"Six
weeks?" Robert repeated doubtfully. "No common girl could possibly
manage it."

"Mayhap
not. But—d'ye remember that McLaran lass?" Darnley asked with a lift of
one ruddy brow. "Ah, no, you wouldn't, would you? You were just a
bairn."

"I
remember all the trouble she caused."

"That
one was no peasant," Darnley said. "And she bore a bonny
daughter."

"You
don't mean she's still
here?"

"Nay,
I gave her to Jacob Bowden when she quickened—I couldn't risk keeping her
about. But she and Bowden are both dead now, and I've seen the lass about the
kitchens. A little redheaded thing, just like Maude, and about the proper age.
You can teach her what she needs to know."

"Perhaps,"
Robert said, his doubtful tone belied by the spark of interest in his eyes. Who
would have thought John capable of such a plan? It was almost surely doomed to
failure and yet... it had a certain subtle wit that appealed to Robert's
instinct for intrigue. Could he actually take some common lass and in one
month's time pass her off as a lady? It all depended on the girl, of course.
She would need brains and courage... qualities not commonly found among the
peasantry.

"Of
course we needn't confine ourselves to the Bowden lass," he said. "Or
any of your by-blows, for that matter. Any redheaded wench with a bit of wits
would do."

"Christ
forbid," Darnley said, signing himself hastily with the cross. "I
said my
daughter
and gave my oath upon it. I'll not be forsworn."

The
squire returned with food, which he set upon the table, and then retreated at
an impatient command from his master. As they sat down before the window,
Robert studied his half brother with amusement. What curious contradictions
people were, just as his friend Chaucer often said! John wouldn't hesitate to
send some poor wench in Maude's place, plotting treachery all the while, yet he
balked at the breaking of his vow.

Though
Robert had been planning to ride back to London within the week, his mind was
changed in an instant. If they managed to carry this preposterous deception
off, he would make a song of it, a story to match any that Chaucer could
create. With any luck he'd sing it at Yule Court— perhaps for the Duke of
Lancaster himself!

And
if it went the other way—well, he rather imagined he'd be riding back to London
before the battle was joined. John Darnley was only his half brother after all,
and the tie between them was not so strong that Robert would risk his life for
it.

"It
may be we won't need her after all," Darnley said, breaking off a piece of
warm bread and spreading it with honey. "If my men in Berwick do their
work, all the better. There can be no wedding if the groom is rolling at the
bottom of the sea with a dagger in his ribs," he finished with grim
relish.

"True,"
Robert agreed, though he privately hoped Kirallen would escape the assassins.
If he died now it would quite spoil all the fun.

"But
either way, this time I'll finish them," Darnley said, fingers clenching
on his knife. "The old man's gone soft—he must be mad in truth to think
I'd ever give them Maude. Even if this other one, this Jemmy, does come back,
I've naught to fear from him. I bested the elder brother, and by God, that one
was a
man!
He rode where he pleased, took what he wanted—Christ, he was
an arrogant bastard. But no match for my strength. With him gone there's no one
who can stop me. They're dead men, every one of them, I swear it before
God—d'ye hear me?
Do you?"
he cried, pounding his fist upon the
table.

Robert
shot him an uneasy glance. Darnley's lips were drawn back from his teeth, his
eyes glittering with an eerie light just this side of madness. Lately Robert
had begun to suspect his half brother
was
a little mad. Three months ago
he'd slain the eldest Kirallen son in battle, a story Robert had heard a
hundred times in the fortnight since he'd arrived. Yet the victory had done
nothing to appease Darnley's anger against the clan—if anything, it had grown
to an obsession.

"Aye,"
Robert said softly. "I hear you well and truly. God help Jemmy Kirallen
and all his kin."

He
raised his mug to drink, then set it down again untasted and stared out at the
endless, empty moor. God's teeth, the borders were a desolate place, even in
high spring. Had he really just agreed to prolong his visit by another two
months?

But
after a moment the merry light glinted once again in the knight's hazel eyes
and he grinned, tapping his fingers on the tabletop as he composed the opening
stanza of his ballad.

Jemmy
Kirallen stood at the ship's prow and stared bleakly into falling rain. Of
course it was raining. It always rained in Scotland. Until he went abroad he
had never quite believed that there were places where fog and rain were not
everyday occurrences, magical islands and white sand beaches where sunlight
danced on water that was an ever-shifting patchwork of emerald and jade and
teal.

Now
he sighed and squinted into the gloom. Ahead he could just make out the docks
of Berwick, a sullen collection of squat buildings and stark pilings crouched
above a churning leaden sea. Tendrils of fog obscured the view for a moment,
then the torchlit landing reappeared amid its swirling depths. The whole scene
looked like something from a half-remembered dream. Or nightmare, Jemmy thought
grimly.

Six
weeks ago, word had reached him in Cadiz that his elder brother had been slain
by Lord John Darnley. Jemmy had set off as soon as possible, settling what
business he could and leaving the rest undone, knowing that his father would be
expecting him to come at once. Ian was dead, his son a child, and the old man's
health was failing. There was no question but that Jemmy must come back.

It
all made perfect sense, and yet it made no sense at all. Scotland was not his
home; it hadn't been for years. He belonged there even less now than he had
twelve years ago.

Even
as a child Jemmy had seen the futility of the age-old feud between his family
and the Darnleys. It was a war with no end and no beginning, its only purpose
to devour soldiers on both sides, shattering lives and hopes and dreams. Now he
would be expected not only to fight, but to lead his clan in battle to avenge
his brother's death.

Well,
he thought, his expression growing even bleaker, he wouldn't do it. And once
they realized he wasn't the leader they sought, their welcome would turn cold
as ashes. They would name him a traitor and a coward, not fit to take Ian's
place. As if he'd ever wanted to. It wouldn't be pleasant, but it would all be
over quickly; he'd be back in Spain before autumn came. There was no reason to
feel otherwise, no excuse for the nagging apprehension that gripped him, as
though he walked into a trap. His visit would be a short one; his refusal to
make war on Darnley would see to that. He didn't give a tinker's dam for what
any of them thought about it, either.

Except
his father.

The
old man must be distraught. Ian had been the light of his life—as well as the
darling of the clan. No doubt the lot of them were mad with grief and clamoring
for vengeance. Did they really think that killing any number of Darnleys would
make a difference? No matter what they did now, Ian would still be dead.

The
ship docked and he went slowly down the plank, feeling as though he was walking
back in time. Here, just here, he had taken his first berth. Now he was back
again, exactly where he'd started, as though the past twelve years had never
been.

A
group of Spaniards stood bewildered in the falling rain, their tentative
inquiries brushed aside by the hurrying sailors. As Jemmy passed by, one man
touched his arm.

"Con
permiso, señor,"
he said in the fluid accents of Castile.
"Please, if you could direct me to the nearest inn, I would be
grateful."

Jemmy
answered the man's question in his own tongue, and they walked together down
the dock. His eyes passed, seemingly without interest, over two men lounging
against the pilings. His gaze sharpened as they detached themselves and fell
casually into step behind him.

"This
way," Jemmy said to the Spaniard, giving him a little push.
"Vaya
con Dios."

Before
he'd finished speaking he whirled around and caught the wrist of the man behind
him, twisting the dagger from his grasp and kicking it across the rain-slicked
planks. As the Spaniard hurried away, Jemmy dropped to a crouch, his own dagger
gleaming in the lantern-light as he faced his two assailants, expecting them to
run. But they did not.

"Weel,
lads," he said pleasantly, his voice unconsciously dropping into the
cadence of his youth. "Ye ken this won't be as simple as you'd planned it.
And just now you must be wondering where to go from here. Now, my advice is to
stop and think this through before you do something we'll all be sorry for. One
mistake has a way of leading to another, and I wouldn't want to see that happen
here tonight. It's not too late to walk away with none of us the worse for
it."

The
man who Jemmy had disarmed now pulled another dagger from his back and took a
step to the left. The second one spat into the churning water and moved to
Jemmy's right. These were no dockside ruffians, Jemmy thought, his dark eyes
narrowing, or they'd have taken to their heels the moment he drew.

"Don't
rush it, lads," he continued, circling slowly to keep them both in sight.
"I'm sure you have no wish to die tonight, no more than I have to kill
you. But don't doubt that I'll do it if I have to. And I ask you, what would be
the point of it? Instead, why don't you tell me what this is all about, and
I'll forget I ever saw you."

For
an instant they hesitated, and Jemmy began to hope they would take him at his
word. He had spoken nothing but the truth when he said he didn't want to kill
them. But in the end, whatever drove such men—a thing Jemmy didn't understand
and didn't want to—once again proved stronger than reason. By the time the
Spaniard returned with the Watch it was all over and Jemmy was replacing his
dagger in its sheath.

A
dozen witnesses rushed forward now that it was finished, eager to tell the
tale. Two men set upon one, they said, and the one did everything in his power
to stop the fight. Irritated with the whole business, Jemmy stopped only to
draw the nearest man's cloak from his breast, glancing without surprise at
Darnley's crest emblazoned on the blood-soaked tunic.

They
were fools, he thought in disgust, flicking the cloak over the man's still face
and staring eyes. They could be alive and now they were dead, all for the sake
of some ancient fight they didn't even understand.

And
now he was part of it again. Which made him, he reflected with sudden weary
anger, the biggest fool of all.

"Jemmy!"
a voice called, and he looked up sharply, one hand going to his dagger. It fell
away as he saw half a dozen men approaching through the mist and recognized
their colors.

He
had trouble putting names to the faces of the men, but in one or two of them he
could see echoes of the boys that they had been twelve years before. But he
knew at once the man who stepped forward, throwing the rain-drenched hood back
from his face.

When
Jemmy had left home, his foster brother Alistair was just seventeen and had
already earned himself a reputation as the most promising young warrior in the
clan—save perhaps for Ian—and the most enthusiastic wencher—again, with Ian as
his only competition. Alistair had looked deceptively angelic in those days
with his silver-gilt hair and fine gray eyes, a perfect foil to Ian's dark good
looks, and he'd grown from a pretty youth into a striking man.