Claire Delacroix (34 page)

“That fiend has no heart,” Sebastien whispered but the Hawk turned away.

“I shall hope that the lady’s uncommon resilience aided her,” he said, his voice husky.

“I fear that hope is not enough,” Nigel said. “Look at the missive they have sent to you.” He unfurled the bundle that had been in his grasp and the men stepped back from the stench of it.

It was the banner of Inverfyre, the banner of the Hawk, and it had been torn from its place of honor above the gates. The intruders had defecated upon it and the smell was unbearable.

But the Hawk did not step away. For there, in the middle of the mired banner, lay the length of his lady’s hair. It gleamed golden, shorn cruelly from her head, and he could not draw a breath at the sight of it.

His men swore softly, but the Hawk gently picked up Aileen’s hair. This must be all of it, from the quantity, and he recoiled from what must have happened for her to have allowed this to be done.

“They want the seal of Inverfyre and the relic called the
Titulus Croce
,” Nigel said. “For they say that neither are within your treasury.”

“They lie,” Ahearn said bluntly. “I have seen the
Titulus
there myself.”

“They say that they will exchange Aileen for relic and seal,” Nigel continued.

“They lie!” Sebastien said hotly. “She is probably dead already, or close to it!”

Ahearn and Fernando silenced him with a glance, but the Hawk barely noted the exchange. He saw only the length of her hair cradled in his hands and remembered caressing it the night before.

But hours before he had left her and unwittingly abandoned her to a cruel fate.

“I will be at the river,” he said tersely, and left to see the soil washed from the hair.

While he did so, he prayed with all his heart that she had avoided torment. He prayed that she could forgive him, for like his forebear Magnus Armstrong, he had sacrificed his sole desire for the sake of his earthly ambition. Despite all the warnings the lady had granted to him, he had walked precisely the same path again.

He coiled her hair with care and put it into his purse, as a talisman, and his fingers brushed the other item secured there.

It was the seal of Inverfyre, which he had carried upon his person since it had first been entrusted to him by his father, almost twenty years before. He turned it in the light, noting the carving of the peregrine and the residue of red wax caught upon its edges.

The Hawk knew that the true prize Dubhglas desired of him was not this seal. It was the Hawk’s own life that was the issue, for so long as the Hawk drew breath, Dubhglas would not sleep soundly. So long as the Hawk drew breath, his vassals would defend his interests—upon his death, they would probably scatter for lack of leadership and protection, abandoning Dubhglas’ every desire to his hand.

Perhaps he and Dubhglas could make a wager.

The Hawk glanced back through the trees and saw that his men were aiding Nigel. Ahearn wore a frown as he treated the wound, his saddlebag laid open at his side, and Ewen offered Nigel a flask of eau de vie. The horses loitered beyond them, nibbling at the undergrowth and quietly nickering.

They would never notice his departure. He would take no horse, for he would offer Dubhglas no other chance to make a creature suffer.

That man had souls enough to torment behind Inverfyre’s walls. The Hawk slipped through the shadows of the forest on silent feet, and emerged on the road just outside Inverfyre’s gates.

The sentry shouted and a crowd gathered atop the walls as the Hawk walked steadily toward the portcullis. A dozen bowsmen trained their arrows upon him, but none loosed a shot. He heard a shout behind him as his men undoubtedly realized what he did, then he paused and unbuckled his scabbard with deliberate gestures.

“I come to parlay with Dubhglas MacLaren,” he said, his voice carrying clearly to the sentries arrayed before him. “And I come unarmed.” He laid his scabbard and belt upon the road, then walked toward the gates as the portcullis slowly rose.

A
lthough Tarsuinn recognized Aileen immediately and quickly stepped back from his portal to invite her inside, she realized that she was not alone in seeking his hospitality.

Guinevere sat at the small table, her cloak and hood nestled tightly around her neck. She granted Aileen a wry glance which told Aileen that she was not fooled and turned back to the fire without comment.

“I did not mean to interrupt,” Aileen said quietly, assuming that the whore pursued her trade here.

Tarsuinn snorted. “You interrupt nothing but two old friends comparing knowledge of poultices.”

Aileen’s surprise must have shown for the old falconer smiled.

“We each offer our share of healing, in my case to peregrines, in Guinevere’s case to women who seek her aid.”

“I thought Ahearn was the one with healing gifts at Inverfyre,” Aileen said, daring to take one of the other seats at the table.

Guinevere shrugged. “It was not Ahearn who granted Margery aid, at your dictate.”

“I thought Nissa went to Ahearn.”

“She came to me when he refused.” Guinevere arched a brow. “Perhaps he knows less of women, or at least of their woes, than he would like all to believe.”

“I would have thanked you, had I known,” Aileen said. “And though it is belated, I would thank you now.”

Guinevere looked up, not troubling to hide her bitterness. “I wondered why I was cast from the keep immediately after following the Lady of Inverfyre’s bidding. The Hawk bade all the whores be gone by first light, but at least Tarsuinn has a shred of compassion in his heart.”

“It is not a lack of compassion that persuades a man that his children should not be raised in the company of whores,” Aileen argued.

Guinevere chuckled. “No, it is his new wife that so persuades him.”

Silence stretched between the pair, until Aileen laid her hands upon the table. “And what am I to do? Surely you can see that this hall has to change from one of fighting men and their whores to one of respectability? My mother never had to tolerate whores in the hall of Abernye.”

“So, you are the one who lacks compassion,” Guinevere mused.

“I do not! I know what is proper...”

“You know nothing,” Guinevere sneered. “You do not know what it is to have your father die and your brothers offer you to their friends for coin. You do not know the shame of losing every item in your possession, even your dignity. You do not know what a refuge Inverfyre has been for me and others who have shared my sorry path. You do not know what it is to be a woman undefended amongst rogues. Condemn me if you will, and I have no doubt that you will, but I have survived. I will not be compelled to agree with your petty notions of propriety.”

She sat back and sipped her ale, her eyes filled with malice.

“I did not know,” Aileen said, ashamed of her hasty assumptions.

“You did not ask.”

Tarsuinn sighed and sat down heavily beside Guinevere. He touched her shoulder in a paternal gesture that she did not avoid. Indeed, she spared him a sad smile, as if to reassure him that her anger was not aimed at him. “It is better always to have the truth told,” he said, then turned to Aileen. “Guinevere’s father was a baron in Wales, who died young and left insufficient coin to sate his four sons.”

“No amount of coin would have sated them,” Guinevere muttered.

Belatedly, Aileen saw a lesson that was hers to learn. With power of any kind—not just that of the Sight—comes the burden of responsibility. As Anna, she should not have used her gift against her love, however Magnus had vexed her. And here, at Inverfyre, she should not have shunned Guinevere and the other women without first asking for their tales.

As Lady of Inverfyre, she had the power to aid them, and the responsibility to do so.

Aileen leaned across the table and touched Guinevere’s hand. “I am sorry that I spoke in haste. If we triumph, know that I will teach you and any of the women from the Hawk’s hall to serve noblewomen. And I shall endeavor to make good matches for them, as the lady of any abode should do. I ask them and you only for honesty and a desire to learn.”

Guinevere inclined her head. “It may be too high a price for some,” she admitted with a smile. “But your wager is fair, my lady.”

The two women shared a tentative smile, the first mark of a truce that Aileen hoped would only grow stronger.

She cleared her throat, for there was one matter yet that she did not understand. “But you have a healer’s gift, Guinevere. Why do you earn coin upon your back?” Aileen asked, not flinching from the other woman’s sharp look. “People willingly offer coin for potions and healing counsel.”

“So I have told her, many a time,” Tarsuinn agreed.

“It is wicked to take payment for such a gift,” Guinevere insisted.

“Hardly that,” Aileen said. “And surely it offers a better chance for your future. A healer’s price only increases as she ages and gains wisdom, though the same can hardly be said of a whore.”

“What of Fernando?” Tarsuinn asked kindly and Guinevere flushed.

“What of him? He speaks with me, as if my sole asset is not between my thighs.” She lifted her chin, her eyes bright with challenge. “I like him well, but what of it?”

Tarsuinn smiled. “I think he likes you more than well, Guinevere and I think this admiration is mutually shared. Have you had this same argument with him?”

“He is always vexed when I take a lover, but men are possessive.”

“Yet you have never taken Fernando as a lover,” Tarsuinn observed.

“I would not sacrifice the friendship we share. And it is true that he coaxes me with pretty words to do his bidding, to leave my lovers for all time, even to abide with him.” She looked into her cup, her expression bleak and her voice soft. “I dare not believe him, Tarsuinn. I could not bear to learn that he is just as fickle as all the others.”

Aileen reached across the table and seized the other woman’s hand. “But what if he is not? What if you have a chance of happiness, yet you are spurning it for no good reason?”

Guinevere looked up, hope dawning in her eyes.

A heavy knock came on the door in that moment, then the portal was kicked open. “Surrender your weapons!” bellowed one of the MacLarens’ mercenaries.

All three of the occupants stood in fear.

The mercenary glanced over them without interest. “Where is your sword, old man?”

“I have none. I am but a humble falconer.”

The mercenary kicked over a barrel of oats, disregarding that the contents spilled onto the dirt floor. Indeed, he walked through it, as if to ensure that the oats would be of no value. “And you, pretty boy?”

Aileen shook her head and the mercenary’s eyes narrowed.

“Oh no, he is mine!” Guinevere purred. She closed her hand over the place where Aileen’s jewels should have been and Aileen was so clearly surprised that the mercenary laughed.

“Aye? And when you are done with the boy, why not lie with a man?” He gave her breast an impudent squeeze and Guinevere managed to smile, as if she was encouraging.

“Do you know where I might find one?” she asked with a smile, her manner flirtatious.

The mercenary laughed, then caught her roughly against him. He kissed her with vigor, then cast her back toward her stool with such force that she stumbled. “I know the weapons that your kind wield,” he said with a sneer. “I shall remember this abode this night, that much is for certain.”

He kicked over the jug of cream as he left the hut and none of them protested. “And what is in here?” he roared, no doubt at the moulting house beside Tarsuinn’s house.

The old falconer ran after him then. “The peregrines must have silence to preserve their value as hunters,” Tarsuinn insisted.

“Let me see them. I am bidden to examine every structure for weapons and women.”

“I would not suggest...”

The women winced when they heard Tarsuinn grunt in pain. The moulting house door opened and the birds began to protest as the mercenary obviously checked the hut. Tarsuinn grunted again and the mercenary laughed.

“Let that teach you to not defy me, old man,” he said. “I will be back, and you will be more compliant, I trust.” And with a whistle, he continued upon his way.

Tarsuinn returned to the hut, nursing an eye that was rapidly swelling and a sore midriff where he had been punched. Guinevere fussed over him, the affection between them more than clear.

“Fernando’s promises are of no import now,” Guinevere said, as if the conversation had not been so rudely interrupted. “The Hawk and his men have ridden out, Inverfyre is lost, and we shall be on our backs, my lady, afore the week is complete.”

“No,” Aileen insisted. “We must aid the Hawk somehow.”

“We are outnumbered,” Guinevere argued. “Even if the Hawk and his men return, there must be a hundred mercenaries in the hall. I was there. I counted them.”

“And how many villagers have we? How many ostlers and squires and sentries and millers and wives and children? We are more than them in total, though they count only the fighting men. Can you not wield a knife, Guinevere? Could a peasant not wield his scythe? Could we not overwhelm the attackers, if we all rose in defiance together?”

“Vassals will be killed,” Tarsuinn said with a shake of his head. “It is not their place to fight for this very reason.”

“They will be killed beneath the MacLaren’s hand, at any rate,” Aileen insisted. “I, for one, would rather die fighting, than die however and whenever some cur decides my fate. I would fight for Inverfyre, even if I risk dying in the fray. We owe no less to the Hawk.”

“She is right,” Guinevere said unexpectedly. “I, too, will fight for the Hawk and for Inverfyre, though my contribution may be small.”

Tarsuinn glanced between the two women, noted their determination, then nodded. “Fair enough. I will wield my blade in turn.”

“What blade?” Guinevere demanded.

The falconer grinned. “My sword is secured in the wall. I would not surrender such a noble blade willingly to such a felon.” He saved the women’s surprise, then winked at Aileen. “Choose the time, my lady, and we shall send word through the village. You speak aright when you say that they do not trouble themselves overmuch with the common people.”