She pulled the heavy leather packet onto her lap and unwound the leather thong holding it closed. Once open, the day’s events began to recede into a more orderly fashion, the emotion of it falling away as she sifted through the pages gathered together inside the portfolio. Handwritten journals, calendars, sketches of chambers and wings of Darlyrede and other holds in the area of Northumberland, and even beyond.
She came to the most recent entry of her notes and then reached for the linen bag, removing her small pot of ink and pen. She sharpened the tip and opened the pot, pausing a moment to collect her thoughts before dipping the quill and setting it to the paper in the flickering candlelight.
1 October, 1458. C. H. seemed more distraught than usual. Fifteen years since E. H.’s disappearance. Darlyrede was visited by a man claiming to be a legitimate heir to T. A. He is almost certainly Scottish. Quite destitute. Bold. L. M. arrived nearly atop him and appears to be staying, in anticipation of the king. What time is left for the investigation is unknown. C. H. is to meet with V. H. alone this evening. I fear for her health.
Beryl set the page aside to dry while riffling through the stack until she located the drawing she sought. She dipped her quill and dabbed it well on the neck of the pot before turning the tip to its finest edge and leaning her face close to the page. She drew a short line emanating from within a thin rectangle, indicating the doorway between Lady Hargrave’s chamber and the one previously belonging to Euphemia Hargrave.
Bolted, C. H. side.
Beryl raised up and looked at the overall sketch, her eyes going at once to a similar rectangle that marked the exit of the chamber into the corridor, and the note she’d made weeks ago.
Bolted, inside. Keyed at corridor.
Her lips pressed together. Euphemia Hargrave’s chamber was capable of being secured from the inside against anyone attempting to enter it from the corridor, but it was also outfitted with an intricate mechanism requiring a metal key from the outside, which, to Beryl’s mind, would only be required if one wished to keep whoever was in the chamber from leaving. The inner door between the chambers was only able to be secured from Lady Caris’s chamber. There was no nurse’s quarters attached to the chamber, and as far as Beryl knew, there had never been a nurse assigned to sleep in the chamber with the girl—Lady Caris had been the sole carer. Perhaps the locks were measures that remained from when Euphemia was a young child, and no one had ever seen reason to change it.
Or perhaps the lady had been trying to protect her niece from someone.
The small addition to the map took only a moment to dry, and then Beryl shuffled all the pages together again and secured them within the leather portfolio. Satin chose that moment to leap onto the cot, picking his way daintily around the obstacles until he reached her lap. He circled and then laid himself in the valley of her thighs, his eyes squinting drowsily as he began to purr.
Now Beryl’s mind was free to dwell on Padraig Boyd.
He didn’t appear to be a man descended from nobility and entitled to a grand manor such as Darlyrede House. As much as she hated to agree with the detestable Lord Hargrave—save for the Scotsman’s proud face and his well-muscled frame—Padraig Boyd would be nearly indiscernible from any beggar on a city street. Beryl had certainly seen her share of the destitute masses in Chartres. Rough men and women with no home, no money, no family, begging for the church’s charity. But if Padraig Boyd’s claims were true, he did have family—Thomas Annesley.
Which turned her reluctant thoughts at last to Lucan. It was all his doing, Beryl was certain. She dreaded the moment when she would have to face him again—now that he had seen her, she knew there was little hope of avoiding him.
There came a light rapping on her door, and Beryl froze, daring not even to breathe. No one came to her chamber in the night—not since she’d first arrived at Darlyrede and a handful of the men employed at the hold had thought to woo her in their rough, clumsy manner. Her wide eyes fixed on the wooden barrier, the candlelight rippling gently over it.
Had her thoughts of Lucan summoned him? Perchance it was the stranger, Padraig Boyd, who pursued her. He had been kind to her in the entry, yes, and there had been something else in his eyes when he’d looked at her—almost as if he was truly speaking to her as a person and not a servant. But despite his handsome looks, his situation was desperate, and Beryl knew from experience that one could never predict the actions of a desperate person.
The door latch rattled insistently once, twice.
Perhaps it was Vaughn Hargrave who sought her at last, ready to bring to life all the dreadful imaginings of her nightmares. Beryl covered her mouth with her hands to stifle any anxious cry, and her gaze flicked nervously to the thick, leather portfolio. In her mind’s eye, she saw the wood splintering as the bolt gave way, the dark, hulking figure striding into her chamber, discovering her and her secrets. It seemed that the very roots of her hair ached with the strain.
But the bolt held firm, and no further attempt was made.
Beryl let out her breath slowly through her nose. Her hands drifted down as if sinking through deep water to hover over the mound of warm, white fur. Satin slept on, still curled in her lap, oblivious to the potential danger that lurked in the black corridor beyond the chamber door. He gave a pitiful mew of objection when she gently scooped him up and set him on the rough woven coverlet.
Moving gingerly lest her cot make the faintest betraying creak, Beryl gained her feet and took up the portfolio. She rolled her steps, heel to toe, soundlessly to the black hole in the wall where she deposited the packet without so much as a whisper of leather against stone. She replaced the panel with painstaking slowness, not bothering to go back for the linen sack containing her writing utensils; pen and ink could be replaced.
The pages were exceptional, and a potential death sentence if discovered.
She rose and turned noiselessly, facing the door. With the same careful gait, she crossed the floor and stood nearly touching the wood. Beryl turned her face aside and leaned her ear near the seam of door and wall, holding her breath once more, listening, listening…
A pair of light, percussive taps sounded at her cheekbone, the sudden reverberations against her skin so startling that Beryl gasped aloud and stumbled away from the door, her heart threatening to explode in her chest.
Then footsteps, carelessly loud, receded into the silence of the night.
It was a very long time before she slept.
Chapter 4
Padraig’s chamber was invaded just after dawn, Lucan Montague preceding Rolf and a pair of maids carrying trays of food and the items required for a thorough toilette. Padraig washed while Montague ate, his pride unwilling to allow him to sit at the small table in his current state. Even in his plain garb, Lucan Montague seemed a wild gentleman, a snowy linen cloth tossed over his left shoulder, his manner relaxed and yet elegant as he partook heartily of the fragrant nourishment provided. The eating knife seemed a fine instrument in the man’s hand, choosing this and that in turn, never hesitating, even as his attention was fixed on Padraig while he gave his initial advice for the morning’s affair.
But being clean of body did little to bolster Padraig’s confidence when he had no choice but to redon his worn clothes, and it seemed that they had grown more threadbare and filthy since his arrival. He sat down at the table stiffly as Lucan continued.
“He’ll not be pleased,” Lucan said, pausing to chew and then turn his head slightly to wipe his mouth with the cloth over his shoulder. “But there is little protest he can put forth, lest he wishes to incur the king’s displeasure.”
Padraig picked up the heavy chalice of watered wine—at least he knew how to drink. “He’ll only choose those loyal to him. Nae sane man would lend his enemy his best weapon.” He brought the cup to his mouth.
“It’s not only up to him.” Lucan seemed to pause pointedly while Padraig drained th
e chalice. Padraig set down the metal cup with a solid thunk and then released a belch before he thought better of it. The knight stared at him.
“What?” Padraig demanded, but his ears burned.
“Nothing. Any matter, I have leave to choose the majority of your camp from Darlyrede’s staff. I believe there are few here with any real love for Hargrave, but most hold such fear of him that there are equally few who will be willing to lend you their support at once.” Lucan reached out to flick the tip of his knife over his trencher; it came away with a hunk of tender-looking meat that he promptly plucked from the blade and then placed in his mouth.
“Do I have nae say?” Padraig asked, eyeing the halved roasted birds lying on the platter alongside a pile of dried figs and a round of bread. He was hungry. He picked up the knife alongside his trencher.
“If you like,” Lucan said with a touch of surprise, and Padraig could feel the man’s eyes on him as he speared the half carcass with his blade.
Padraig caught the other side of the bird with his left hand. It smelled delicious. He would do his best not to embarrass himself, but it was only Montague, after all. “Rolf.” He held the fowl suspended between his hand and knife and brought it to his mouth, ripping off a large bite.
Lucan blinked. “Not possible. The steward must remain neutral. Master Boyd, is your blade not sharp?”
Padraig spoke around his food. “I reckon it is. Why?”
“Perhaps you might use it. Rolf is in service to Darlyrede House. His sole responsibility is keeping the hold in order.”
“He’ll have a faggin’ hard time o’ that, is my wager.” Padraig wiped his mouth with his sleeve reflexively, regretting it almost before the wool touched his face.
Lucan reached across the table and lifted a square of cloth—another snowy piece of linen—and handed it to Padraig. “Indeed. Any matter.” He dabbed at his mouth with his own napkin again, as if as an example, and then whipped it from his shoulder as he stood. “Forgive me for cutting short your…meal, but they will be gathering in the hall. It’s best we arrive before Hargrave has a chance to turn too many ears to his cause through trickery or outright lies.”
Padraig nodded and stood, still chewing. His napkin fell to the floor. He peered into the pitcher, but it was already empty. He gestured to Lucan’s cup. “You through?”
“What?” the knight asked, and then his eyes went to the chalice Padraig had indicated. “Oh. Yes, I’ve fini—”
But Padraig had already lifted the cup to his mouth, draining the contents. He sighed in satisfaction, although it would have been more heartening had the wine not been watered.
“I’m ready,” Padraig said. Lucan was looking at him queerly again, and so Padraig held up his palms. “Well? Are we to get on or nae?”
Padraig followed Lucan Montague from the chamber and through the maze of corridors, running his hands through his still-damp hair as the knight walked confidently before him. He felt as though the stone passageways were closing in around him, narrowing the farther he walked, until he fancied he could feel them brushing against his shoulders like specters.
His home on Caedmaray was not much wider in breadth than the corridor, true, but with only a trio of steps he could be out the door, under the endless dome of the sky, perched on the top of a world made entirely of the wide sea, the wind tearing through his hair, filling his senses. Padraig felt already as though he hadn’t seen the sky in days. His chest tightened, his breathing grew ragged, and he thought he might now understand the panic and distress of the young rams when they needed to be confined.
But at last the corridor opened up into a high-ceilinged chamber—the largest Padraig had ever seen. The great hall, then. Its timbered lofts seemed impossibly tall, its hearth wide enough to shelter a fishing skiff. The stone floor was covered over with rows of trestle tables, and seated on the benches were scattered what had to be two score people. Padraig’s eyes scanned the somber faces for the dark-haired maid from last night…
“Ah, you at last grace us with your presence, Lucan,” a voice called out in a mocking tone, drawing Padraig’s attention to a table on a raised dais near the hearth. At his side was seated a ghost of a woman, paler than snow, her dark hair swooping away from either side of her face like the heavy-looking draperies at the long, narrow windows. Her eyes were hollow, dark, haunted. The Lady Hargrave, she must be. And at her side was the only other person in the chamber save Hargrave whom Padraig recognized.
She would not look at him.
Lucan Montague gave a shallow bow. “Lord Hargrave.”
The older man’s steely gaze swung to Padraig, and his face was expectant.
“I’ll nae bow to you, if that’s what you’re waiting for. You’re nae lord o’ mine.”
Hargrave’s brow rose. “My, my. Defensive at the start, are we not, Master Boyd? It’s only common courtesy to pay respect to one’s host when one is a guest. Especially when they are your better. But I suppose I shouldn’t be overly expectant of a show of manners from one seemingly raised in the wild.”
Padraig’s pride burned at being so blatantly insulted before the beautiful woman who as yet refused to acknowledge his presence. “I’m nae your guest, Hargrave. Darlyrede belongs to my father.”
“Back to that, are we? Well, I confess I’m not really surprised. The jingle of a purse tends to bring out all manner of beggars from the cracks.”
“You—” Padraig began, but Montague turned quickly and stepped between Padraig and the hall, effectively blocking his view.
“Stop,” he commanded in a low voice. “He’s baiting you before everyone gathered and you’re playing right into his hands. Stop, before he turns you into a fool. I assure you, he will.” Lucan turned. “Gentlemen, may I remind you that there will be a time and a place to present your cases before the king? We have gathered this morning to do no more than determine the division of the hold.”
“Gentlemen—ha! Ah, well—the voice of reason, as always, Lucan,” Hargrave condescended, but Padraig could tell by the man’s smug expression that he felt he had already scored a point. “You will be happy to know that while we were waiting interminably for your arrival, I chose a suitable staff for your ambitious indigent.” He waved a hand toward a nearby table, and a trio of brawny and scowling men stood from the benches.
“You should be quite pleased.” Hargrave smirked. “They are most suitable to your…specific needs.”
“Thank you, Lord Hargrave,” Lucan said. “We shall certainly begin with these three.”
“Oh, they’re all I can spare, I’m afraid.”
“Master Boyd shall require personal attendants for his chambers. I do doubt any of these lads has experience as a chambermaid.”
“I can throw out me own piss,” Padraig muttered.
“Very well,” Hargrave agreed quickly. Too quickly, in Padraig’s mind. “Searrach?”
A raven-haired woman seated at a table near the first six men rose. She was shapely of body, but her features were sharp. “Aye, milord.”
“Are you amenable to serving our guest for the remainder of his—very brief, I’m certain—stay?”
“As you wish, Lord Hargrave.”
Padraig felt his eyebrows raise. The woman was a Scot.
Hargrave looked back to Lucan, a thin smile on his face. “There you are. Happy now?”
Padraig suspected he was the only person in the chamber to hear Montague’s curt sigh before he strode through the hall, weaving between the tables and benches. He stopped in the center of the gathering, turning in a slow circle.
“You,” he said, pointing to a large, somber-looking young man. “And you, there. Yes. You, mistress—is that your daughter with you? Very good; the pair of you, if you please. You, and…also you.”
Now Lucan looked back to Hargrave. “That should be a sufficient number for now. I reserve the right to ree
valuate in the coming days once Master Boyd becomes settled.”
“You reserve the—?” Hargrave grasped both arms of his chair and leaned forward with an incredulous expression. And then he laughed.
“Wait,” Padraig interjected, crossing the floor to where Lucan stood and drawing the attention of all in the hall. He cleared his throat. “I’d have my say.”
Lucan Montague fixed Padraig with a glare full of daggers.
Padraig ignored him, turning toward the dais fully and pointing toward the woman sitting rigid as a post next to Lady Hargrave. Her gaze seemed fixed on some point away from where Padraig stood at Montague’s side.
In the daylight of the hall, Padraig knew she was the most beautiful woman he’d had ever seen. Quite possibly the most beautiful woman in all the world.
She would give him her attention now.
“Her,” he said clearly. “Beryl, you called her. I want her.”
* * * *
Beryl raised her head so quickly the bones in her neck crackled. She knew her eyes were too wide, her expression full of shocked abhorrence.
“What?” she blurted out and then looked quickly to Caris Hargrave. “My lady,” she pleaded quietly.
But Lady Hargrave was already smiling serenely and laid a cool, comforting hand on her arm, even as she spoke toward the hall in her soothing, melodic voice.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible, my dear Lucan. Beryl is wholly a lady’s maid, and her duties are such that I simply cannot do without her. I’m sure you understand.”
Beryl silently let out the breath she’d been holding.
Lucan nodded deferentially. “Of course, my lady. Perhaps someone else, Master Boyd,” he suggested.
But the Scotsman was already shaking his head. He crossed his arms over his wide chest, and Beryl noticed then that his hair was curling over his shoulders, his eyes sparkling as they continued to look upon her boldly. He’d had a bath at least, if not a change of clothes. The way he pinned her with his gaze was offensive—that could be the only reason her heart was beating wildly in her chest. Of course she was insulted.
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