Claire Delacroix (141 page)

’Twas a fine summer morn, and on a day so clear, a man so fortunate as Padraig could have no complaints about his fate. Nay, Padraig had seen misfortune aplenty, and a fine little tavern upon the very wharf of Dublin and no lack for clients prepared to pay for an ale was a fine fine fate indeed.

He appreciated all that had come his way, that he did. Though a good measure of his success was due to solid labor, he did not forget to light a candle in the church each week, say his prayers, and let his Mary do whatsoever she felt was necessary to keep the fairy folk happy.

Life was good and Padraig savored every moment. His girth and his three chins were a testament to his success, as were Mary’s padded hips. Aye, life was good, and since it could well be short, neither Mary nor Padraig was inclined to deny themselves whatever pleasure they might seize.

Padraig had unlocked the door facing the wharf and was just in the act of pouring himself a measure of his own ale—just to ensure that it truly fine enough for those inclined to pay—when a shadow fell across the doorway.

He took a hasty gulp, then pivoted with a welcoming smile. Mary whistled over the hearth in the room beyond, the smell of her meat pasties already wafting through the air.

The man who entered the tavern was no more grizzled than most, his ruddy beard shot with a healthy sprinkle of grey. His eyes were narrowed with impatience, and looked as if they were seldom any other way, though it might well have been the sunlight on the water that forced his expression. He scanned the room, as if he were half certain foes awaited him in every corner. To be sure, the man had seen more than one fight, for there were scars upon his face and his leather jerkin.

But Padraig was used to all types. Tough they might well
be, and he bad seen more than one bloody fight, but every man alive liked a cool measure of ale in his throat and a warm morsel in his belly.

“Good morning to you, sir!” Padraig cheerfully rattled through his offerings and associated prices, his first guest silent.

“Ale,” that man said succinctly when Padraig finally finished. He chose the one chair that backed against the wall and sat down, his eyes gleaming in the shadows when he looked to Padraig again. “And whatever ’tis I am smelling.”

“Ah, my wife is a marvel of a cook, that she is. ’Tis a pasty like none other she conjures, ’twill melt in your mouth and make your heart sing from here to eternity.”

Padraig filled a crockery mug with ale and presented it to the man. The man nodded once, sipped, then nodded again. He cast a glance through the door to the bustling wharf, then leaned back against the wall. He stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles, looking dangerous indeed.

Perhaps his silence was unnerving, perhaps it was simply Padraig’s nature to talk, or perhaps just that keeper’s merry mood was at root. Whichever way, Padraig found himself chattering.

“You would be a foreigner, then, by your garb.” The man glanced up, but Padraig only grinned. “Ah, do not be looking so very surprised. ’Tis a busy wharf and I have eyes in my head enough to know who is of here and who is not. And truth be told, there are foreigners aplenty in Dublin these days—and many folk who think ’tis not as matters should be. Me, though, I have no quibble, for ’tis good business when foreigners come to town.”

Padraig leaned on a table. “Aye, the locals, they go home to eat or to their friends for an ale, but those from abroad, even the cursed Normans, have need of a sip and bite. ’Tis
what binds all of us together, shows a man that there is little difference between men, and truly, if you sailed all the way to Jerusalem, well, I imagine even
they
would have need of a sip and a—”

“Have you had many foreigners of late?”

Padraig was startled by the interruption, though he recovered himself quickly. “Oh, aye! To be sure, down Wexford way it has been worse, but we have had our measure here, that much is certain. More Normans than a man can shake a stick at, although I have to be wondering how ’tis they are different from the Vikings.”

Padraig set to rinsing his crockery mugs. “Aye, there were tales aplenty when I was a child, of Viking raids in days long past and thieving of the churches and all, but every Norseman I have known here has been decent enough. Tall and blond they are, though, big men, if you take my meaning, and truly there are many among these Normans with much the same look about them …”

“Any other than Normans and Norse?”

Padraig blinked. “Well, the Welsh, of course, though they are a wickedly roguish lot. Always chasing the women, they are, and leaving their debts unsettled. Surly with coin, if I must say as much, and deceitful beyond other races. ’Tis something in their blood, I think, to covet what is not their own and to take what is not their right to take. Why, that Strongbow himself has a hearty measure of Welsh blood in his veins, ’tis said, which is proof enough for any thinking man of …”

The stranger cleared his throat pointedly. Padraig glanced up and realized to his dismay that this man’s ruddy coloring might put him among Strongbow’s countrymen. Before he could summon a question, the stranger asked another.

“Any other foreigners?”

Padraig felt his eyes narrow in turn. “And why would you
be wanting to know? You have a merry lot of questions this morn, for a man disinclined to share so much as his name.”

The man smiled, an expression that did not seem at ease upon his harsh features. “I seek a friend.”

Padraig did not believe him, not for a moment, though there was something about this man that reminded him of another. “A friend is it, then? Well, there was only one that put me in mind of you, that much is certain, and I suppose there is little harm in setting one foreigner after another.”

“Aye?” The stranger leaned forward, his curiosity obvious.

“Aye, and a strange one he was, I have no quibble in telling you as much as that. A Venetian, ’twas my guess, though the boys they had a wager upon it, one that was never resolved. Dark of hair and dark of eye, but not of these parts. His eyes were nigh black, not that merry brown as the girls are oft having here. Nay, and there was something about him, something that put one in mind of a snake was what my Mary said of him, and she left the room when he was here. I cannot blame her—when the man looked upon you, you were wanting to shiver.

“Come to be thinking of it, he was asking after strangers as well.” Padraig regarded his guest with newfound suspicion. “Is it another invasion then?”

The man sipped and shrugged, his gaze unswerving. “I would know naught of the doings of Venetians, much less any desire they might have for Dublin.”

Padraig snorted. “Well, to be sure, he was not very mysterious about it all. That was why I did not wager upon him being from Venice, for he was the most outspoken foreigner I have heard in years. Aye, he went on and about, fairly hounding me with his questions of some knight or other.”

Padraig tapped his ample chin. “The name, now, the name. A French name or a Norman one, though one I had
not heard afore.” He snapped his fingers suddenly. “Chevalier Rowan de Montvieux, that was it, and how would I be knowing a knight with a name the likes of that, let alone where that man might be found?” Padraig snorted at the foolishness of it all. “Though I suppose in the end I did aid him, for I knew well enough where Ballyroyal could be found, though any fool in this town could have told him that.”

“Ballyroyal?”

“Aye, ’twas where he intended to go, though I cannot imagine why. Truth be told, though, Nicholas of Ballyroyal has that same uncommon coloring.” Padraig leaned against the counter and drummed his fingers. “I shall have to be asking after that, for perhaps they too were old friends and I was wrong to be so suspicious. Goodness knows that Nicholas is a fine and generous man, his wife was born and raised on that fair holding, though indeed her parents came oft to town. I would not want to be offending Nicholas of Ballyroyal, for ’tis said that his arm is long and though he seems amiable enough—”

“Where
is
Ballyroyal?”

Padraig started, telling himself he should become accustomed to this one’s abrupt manner. “Oh, a good day’s ride north and west. ’Tis a fine old holding, though one that benefitted greatly from the bounty Nicholas brought to the marriage with the holding’s daughter. Aye, ’twas said that Adhara of Ballyroyal was a beauty so beyond compare that men would come from across the seas merely to gaze upon her. Why, would that not be a marvelous tale if Nicholas had done precisely that?”

Padraig chuckled to himself. “I had not thought of it before, and, indeed, there is something about Nicholas that prompts a man to refrain from asking bold questions, though
perhaps when he is next in town, I shall ask him of his origins …”

Padraig turned to find the stranger gone. He frowned and crossed the tavern, then poked his nose out the door.

There was no sign of the man or indeed any evidence of his passing.

Padraig ducked back inside and checked the crockery mug, noting that it was empty. He snorted and picked up the vessel, the experience doing naught to disprove his opinion of Welshmen.

But there was single coin left beneath the mug. Padraig picked it up and turned it in the sun, bit the silver and was pleasantly surprised.

“Mary, you will not be believing this, but that man paid for both ale and pasty, without ever having the latter.”

Mary came to the door to the back room, her expression surprised, her hands busily wiping on a cloth. “Aye?”

“Aye.” Padraig spared another glance out the door. “He cannot have been a Welshman, after all.”

Three days after Rowan’s feat, Bronwyn was still furious.

She paced her chamber, uncertain whether to kiss or kill a certain russet-haired knight. Aye, she loved him despite all he had done, and truly her heart had stopped cold when he confessed to loving her. ’Twould have been a sweet moment, if not for one critical detail.

Rowan sorely wanted to win his wager with his brothers. That was impossible to forget. As much as Bronwyn would have preferred to believe his sweet confession, it came at too convenient a moment to be credible.

Her mother had been and gone several times, having extricated the entire tale and tried her mightiest to convince Bronwyn to grant Rowan a chance. Bronwyn was surprised
to learn that Rowan had not already departed from Ballyroyal, to seek another more biddable heiress, but then he could be cursedly stubborn.

And he wanted to win this wager.

The maids had told of Marco’s departure and her father’s annoyance with the whimsy of women, both tales that Bronwyn did not particularly care to hear. She paced her chamber, impatient with its confines and even more impatient with Rowan for not simply leaving. There was no chance of forgetting him while she knew he lingered in the hall.

Perhaps there was no chance of forgetting him at all, but Bronwyn chose to see him and his presence as the obstacle. How like Rowan to capture her attention and not relinquish it. She drummed her fingertips on the furniture and cursed that knight soundly for tying her innards in knots so readily.

’Twas late before Bronwyn finally fell asleep that night, and perhaps because of her recent restlessness, she slept more heavily than was her wont. At some point, she was vaguely aware of the chamber door opening and was certain another maid or her mother was intent on persuading her to abandon “this stubborn course.” Bronwyn frowned and rolled over sleepily, having no intention of arguing the issue again.

When the feather mattress dipped beside her her eyes flew open, but by then it was too late.

None other than the knight who so determinedly occupied her dreams stretched out beside her, his confident manner implying that there was naught untoward with visiting a lady in her own chamber. Bronwyn gasped and might have sat up, but Rowan leaned across to kiss her deeply.

’Twas unfair by any accounting, and, curse the knave, he knew it. Bronwyn melted beneath his embrace, despite her
urge to do otherwise, and by the time the knight lifted his head, she could not recall what she might have said.