Authors: Alys Clare
She moved nearer, drawn forward by some sort of force she did not understand. Still keeping under cover, automatically moving with the soft-footed quietness she had long ago been taught, she approached the glade.
He turned, looking straight at where she stood in a half-crouch in the undergrowth. She was sure he couldn’t see her, for she was peering out at him through a dense tangle of dead wood and brittle branches. After a moment, his eyes moved on. Nothing in his demeanour suggested she had been spotted.
But that brief glance had been enough. She had sensed, the instant she set eyes on him, that he was familiar. Now, she knew for sure. Slowly she stood up straight. Stepping out from the concealing undergrowth, she walked up the narrow track and emerged into the clearing.
He had turned to see the source of the sound: no longer feeling the need to keep silent, she had pushed aside the dry and brittle stems of the thicket, snapping them. Now, as she approached, his eyes were intent on her.
She stopped before him. She bowed her head, then, raising her eyes again, saw that he was smiling. ‘I knew you were there,’ he murmured. ‘Or, to be honest, I knew something was there, although you might have been a hind or a she-boar.’
‘Either creature would have taken alarm at the scent of blood on your gauntlets,’ she pointed out. ‘The hind would have bounded away and the she-boar would probably have charged.’
He nodded. ‘And you: you emerge from your hiding place and calmly walk into my glade.’
Yes
, she thought,
it is indeed his glade
.
He was watching her closely, the heavy brows descending into a frown. ‘Last time we met,’ he said, ‘there was something blue …’ Impatiently, he shook his head. ‘I cannot bring it clearly to mind.’
He sounded, she realized, as if that failure angered him. She thought it was probably a rare occurrence, for him not to be able to summon instantly anything he wanted to recall. She waited a moment in case he remembered – it would not do to antagonize him – and then said, ‘We were in the chapel. St Edmund’s Chapel, by Hawkenlye Abbey.’ She hesitated. ‘We are very near the chapel now.’
It will do no harm
, a self-preserving part of her mind warned her,
to remind him that sacred ground is close by
.
He smiled grimly. ‘Oh, I know all about St Edmund’s Chapel. Go on.’
‘The sun was shining and it sent its rays through the blue of the stained glass, where it forms the sky behind St Edmund’s head,’ she said, choosing her words with care. ‘It has the effect of bathing the whole chapel in a blue light.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That was what you said at the time.’
I didn’t believe you then
, hung in the air,
and I don’t now
.
She made herself go on looking down into the brilliant blue eyes. She could have sworn she felt heat emanating from him, such was his physical presence. Shifting her gaze a fraction, she took in the heavy frame running to fat, well-disguised by the beautifully cut garments but nevertheless discernible, if you studied him closely.
Which she did not seem to be able to stop herself doing …
He stood up, moving towards her so that they stood face to face. They were almost of a height; she was very slightly taller. ‘You smell clean,’ he said. ‘I told you that before, and you said it was a residue of the herbs with which you work.’
‘Yes,’ she said. She was trembling.
He leaned towards her, and, taking her hand, very gently put his lips to it. A jolt of pure sexual excitement raced through her. She made herself stand perfectly still.
He drew off the bloody gauntlets, flinging them away from him. Then he put his hands either side of her face. His touch was soft, but she felt the power that was concealed not far below the surface.
He was staring right into her eyes. ‘I …’ He shook his head, an ironic smile twisting the well-shaped mouth. ‘I know what I
want
to do,’ he murmured, ‘but it is as if something holds me back. Now what, my Meggie, could that possibly be?’
He remembers my name
.
She was thinking, so fast that it threatened to make her faint. She knew she was in peril for, in that instant, she wanted him too. But she would not –
must not
– let that wild, unreasoning element of her nature get to the fore. For one thing, there was Jehan. For another, there was the voice of her mother, echoing in her head as it had done on that day a year ago:
Have no truck with men like him, for they take what they want and do not give anything in return
.
Meggie knew exactly why he felt as if he were held back. Last year, inside the spiritually charged atmosphere of the chapel, she had entranced him and, while he was in thrall, firmly told him that she was not for him:
My fate is connected with the secret of this place
, she had said,
and I would not have you risk its vengeance by taking from me what I do not freely give you
.
As she fought with the part of herself that was trying to shout,
I do give myself! I do!
she was, at the same time, struck anew with the power of the object with which she had enchanted him. She wished she had the Eye of Jerusalem with her now, but it was stowed away safely back at the House in the Woods. Nobody in their right minds carried a sapphire the size of a big man’s thumbnail with them when they went to live in the wilds.
She breathed deeply a couple of times, each time exhaling tension and excitement, inhaling calm. She took a step back, away from him, and his hands fell to his sides. Another step. And another.
When she stood perhaps five paces away, at last she felt she was safe. She met his eyes, and saw that he was smiling.
‘I still think you have magic in you,’ he said quietly. ‘Except that I don’t believe there is any such thing.’
They stood, immobile and silent, for several moments. She was still wrestling within herself, but now it was to a different question that she sought an answer. She knew what she ought to do: there were countless reasons why it was the right thing. But those reasons appeared to have lost their powers of persuasion.
His intense gaze had not left hers. She wondered what she was going to do.
The hooded rider settled the corpse more securely in front of his saddle. He had not yet gone sufficiently far and, despite the fact that it was getting dark and the weather was worsening, he knew he must go on for many more miles yet. His horse was nervous: perhaps aware of the dead body it was being forced to carry. The hooded man shortened his reins, tightening his control. The horse gave a shudder.
Killing this one had been even more like child’s play than the previous two; one of them, indeed, had managed to put up quite a fight. The man’s face twisted in a sneer. Boys dressed up as knights should not, he thought grimly, come out to play in a world they did not begin to understand. Those others – the cousins called St Clair – had been behind it, filling each other’s heads with grand notions of great and noble deeds which would be remembered for ever, and no doubt they had persuaded this other simpleton (the man glanced down at the corpse, face-down across his saddle bow) to join them. The three had, after all, been squires together, and the hardships of the training made tight bonds of friendship.
It was as well, the man mused, that he had taken such great pains to forge a ring of watchers to guard the secret. The network spread its threads widely, and, although none of the people had any idea of what their information was used for, they did their job well. News of the young cousins’ approach had reached the isolated valley long before they had got anywhere near it. Knowing the third youth would follow, it had only been a matter of time before he too met the same fate.
The mystery was, of course, how they had come to hear of the conspiracy in the first place, for the very few people in the know had been sworn – on pain of death – to secrecy. The hooded man was already planning to find out who had spoken where he shouldn’t. Once this present situation had been dealt with, he would devote himself single-mindedly to rooting out the weak link and eliminating it.
It was the sort of work he did best, and he was very, very good at it.
S
ebastian Garrique stood beside the dais in Medley’s great hall, rigid with tension. The long-awaited moment had almost arrived; the culmination of what seemed endless days of intense and painstaking preparations, every last fine detail dictated and overseen by Sebastian himself. It had to be right, he reminded himself for the hundredth time. Benedict de Vitré was dead, but the hospitality of his house was nevertheless about to be judged: by the most eagle-eyed, rigorous and intolerant judge in the entire land.
It was no wonder that, for the past three days and nights, Sebastian had barely slept.
Lord Benedict might have been put in the ground in a private and somewhat hasty fashion, but the funeral feast that was about to begin could not have been more of a contrast. The guest list approached a hundred, and that was without the guest of honour’s own retinue. Far from reflecting the fact that the feast was to recognize a death, the hall was decorated as if for a wedding, or perhaps a birth. Although the day had been sunny and bright, now, in mid-afternoon, already the light was fading, and dozens of flares were spaced at intervals around the walls. On the long trestles, there were beeswax candles for the important guests and rush lamps for the more insignificant. There were going to be so many courses that Sebastian had to consult the cooks before he could remember every one.
The kitchens were like a scene from hell. Extra hands had been brought in and, now that the frenzy of baking, roasting, basting, broiling and stewing was at last almost done, the cooks and their minions could finally afford a moment to slip outside and cool their hot, red, sweaty faces. Soon the first service of dishes would be set out, and the feast could begin.
Sebastian was very aware of Lady Richenza, standing just in front of him. The fast rise and fall of her chest gave away her nervousness; otherwise, she appeared calm. She was dressed in a gown which Sebastian had not seen before: deep-blue velvet, with wide sleeves lined with embroidered silk in lighter shades of blue. He noted with interest – and not a little regret – that since the demise of her lord husband, she now wore her necklines considerably higher. To augment the impression of a demure and modest widow cast into gloom at her loss, the severity of her headdress was worthy of a nun. The starched white wimple revealed not so much as a wisp of her hair, and the close-fitting gorget covered her throat and chin. Her veil was made of very fine wool, and she had styled it so that its scalloped folds fell around her face, moving as she turned her head so that sometimes her features were hidden, sometimes revealed.
The effect, Sebastian reflected, was tantalizing.
The hum of excited chatter out in the courtyard suddenly ceased. A horn sounded: a single, pure note. It was the signal that announced the approach of their guest, and Sebastian saw Lady Richenza straighten her back. Then, without so much as a quick glance to see if he was following, she set off down the hall to take up her post in the great arched doorway. He moved silently to support her, glancing quickly around the hall to check one last time that all was ready.
Then he raised his head and stared out through the door down into the courtyard. The king was coming to visit Medley, honouring the house with his presence, and Sebastian Garrique did not intend to miss a moment.
The feast was going well. The king’s famous blue eyes had lit up at the sight of his hostess waiting at the top of the steps and, as she dropped into a deep and very graceful curtsy, he had reached out a hand to gently cup her chin, raising her to her feet. Then he had taken her hand in his and permitted her to lead him the length of the hall to his place of honour on the dais. Waving away the local lords who tried to declaim their lengthily rehearsed speeches of welcome (he had given the impression of a man who had heard it all before, which, Sebastian reflected, undoubtedly he had) the king turned to Lady Richenza and said, with a smile, ‘My lady, I am both hungry and thirsty, but chiefly thirsty. Is this prettily set board just for looking at, or are we going to be fed and watered?’
Lady Richenza had smiled coyly up at him, her cheeks dimpling, then, turning, she gave the nod to her great gaggle of servants. The feast began.
Now Sebastian was on his fourth or fifth tour of the hall. Moving slowly, not drawing attention to himself and careful to keep out of the way of the hurrying serving men and women, his self-imposed task was, ostensibly, to make sure everyone was being served with all that they wanted – especially the lords and ladies at the tables nearest to the dais. The king’s own steward served the king.
In truth, Sebastian had another motive: as tongues were loosened by ale, mead and wine, he was listening, as well as he could amid the hubbub, to what the guests were saying.
He knew exactly why the king had come to Medley Hall. While it was true that he and the late Lord Benedict had been close, Sebastian did not fool himself that King John’s presence at the funeral feast was motivated by the respect owed to a long friendship, or affection for a dead companion. No: the king was here purely to make sure he received every last coin of the revenues which Lord Benedict had amassed on his behalf. Even now, while the king and his personal circle tucked into goose, jellies, pike, tartlets, honey cakes and wine, five of his officials were in Lord Benedict’s private sanctum, counting money and going through the records like a dog snuffling for fleas. Sebastian knew they were, for, at the king’s peremptory order, he himself had shown the officers where to go.
He came to the end of another circuit and, positioning himself in the shadow of the dais, looked up at the king flirting with Lady Richenza. The girl was handling it well, he had to admit, responsive enough so that King John did not take offence, yet from time to time allowing a small sigh to escape her full lips, accompanied by downcast eyes, as if she was momentarily overcome by her grief. It was, Sebastian reflected, a brilliant performance.