Nor was it honorable to kill someone simply because they didn’t worship in the same way. They all served the same God after all, unlike the Saracens who were slaughtered during the Crusades. The Church had proclaimed the killing to be God’s will, just as Cromwell told his men that what they were doing was just and the will of God, but was it? Or was it just the justification powerful men and the Church used to achieve their own ends and keep the foot soldiers in line, like sheep?
Reverend Pole promised to pray for his soul, as well as help him with his plan. Few people would be surprised to see a reverend out on All Hallows’ Eve, calling to the people to abandon their heathen ways. It was one of the few nights a year, along with Midsummer night, when people chose to turn to the old ways, going back to traditions that started long before the march of Christianity across England. Reverend Pole had reluctantly agreed to give Brendan his spare set of clerical robes, which would hide Brendan in open view. Few people looked past the robes to see the man underneath. They would simply think that the bishop had sent an extra man to assist the elderly reverend in trying to stamp out the Pagan rituals which were so repugnant to the Church. In other words, the perfect night to flee.
“I plan to leave on All Hallows’ Eve,” Brendan confided in Rowan. “I just need Uncle Caleb to provide me with a horse and provisions for a few days. Once I’m safely away from here, I will go to London. I have some friends who will see me through the winter, and then I’ve a mind to sail to America. I…”
Brendan opened his mouth to continue, but stopped mid-sentence, seeing the look of anguish on Rowan’s face as silent tears slid down her cheeks. Her face was a grimace of such suffering that he dropped to his knees in front of her, heedless of his wound, and pulled her to him in an act of silent comfort. Her cap slid off her head, and her hair tumbled around her shoulders and over his arms. It was heavy, the strands silky and almost glowing in the morning sunlight pouring through the little window.
“What is it, lass? Have I said something to upset you?” he whispered into her hair, inhaling its scent. She must have used some kind of flower oil when washing her hair because it smelled of late-summer roses and possibly chamomile. Brendan pulled her closer as she shuddered against him, sobbing into his shoulder, her breasts heaving against his chest.
“Hush now. What upset you so?” Brendan held her away from him and lowered his head to gaze into her downturned eyes. “Rowan…”
“Don’t leave. Please, don’t leave me.” Her voice was so low, Brendan thought he must have imagined it, but she finally looked directly into his eyes and said it again, a little louder this time. “Brendan, please don’t leave.”
Brendan wasn’t sure what shocked him more, her speech or the fact that she was asking him to stay, but he tried not to show his surprise as he took Rowan’s face in his hands. “Sweetheart, I have to go; you know that. I’m a fugitive accused of murder. Sooner or later, someone will find out I’m here, and then it will be the gallows for me. I must leave this place. And you must get married. I will call myself content if I know that you’re well and happy.” But Rowan just shook her head, fresh tears swimming in her eyes.
“I can’t marry him. Not now. Not since you came,” she choked out.
Brendan’s mind screamed for him to stop and come to his senses, but he wasn’t listening. His heart suddenly felt lighter than it had in years, his soul reaching for this beautiful girl who was telling him, in no uncertain terms, that she loved him. It was wrong of him to encourage her, cruel to give her any hope, but he wasn’t thinking clearly as his lips brushed against hers, and felt them open to him, hungry and searching for something she thought only he could give her. She wrapped her arms around him, pressing her body against his in an act of surrender and trust, and he accepted it and kissed her with all the passion he’d been suppressing for the past few weeks. He’d never felt this way about Mary. He wanted her, lusted after her, planned to make her his, but he never felt tenderness or the need to protect that he felt toward Rowan. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and keep her safe, and use his love to shield her from anything this life could throw at her that it already hadn’t.
His mind reeled as she finally broke the kiss and took his face in her small hands. Her eyes were shining with love as she whispered his name, making it sound unbearably beautiful, tumbling from lips that hadn’t spoken in years. Somewhere at the back of his mind, Brendan wondered if Rowan would continue to speak or grow silent again, but it didn’t matter. She’d given him a tremendous gift, one that he had to keep secret until she was ready to share it with the rest of the world.
He finally began to come to his senses, something that was equivalent to plummeting to the earth from a great height and being smashed to pieces. What was he to do now? He had nothing to offer her, not unless he was able to prove his innocence and reclaim what was rightfully his, and he had no ammunition with which to fight. All the evidence was against him, with not a single witness to support his claim. Well, actually there was one, but he didn’t dare ask. Meg had suffered enough, and Jasper would make her life unbearable if she spoke out against him. Besides, the magistrate would need tangible proof, not the suspicions of a grieving daughter and widow. Women were rarely taken seriously in a courtroom setting, especially ones believed to be in the grip of strong emotion.
Meg had her suspicions, but no solid proof. Brendan had to admit that he’d never seen his father’s signature, or had any document that could be used to compare to the signature on the accursed piece of paper which disinherited him. He had no proof, just as he had no proof that he had been set upon by Jasper’s thugs. There were no witnesses, no case. Most men wouldn’t be mad enough to attack three armed horsemen, but it could be argued that they provoked him somehow or insulted his honor, causing him to charge them in a fit of insanity. The end result was still the same. They were dead, and his belongings were found close to their corpses. The best plan was still to flee to London before he was arrested and tried. But what about Rowan?
Chapter 43
Meg smoothed the coverlet around her mother’s shoulders and lightly kissed her forehead so as not to disturb her sleep. She was fading fast, reduced to only a few moments of consciousness, which came on her mostly at night when she called for Brendan and begged Meg to put her out of her misery. Nan Carr was only forty-four, but she looked like a woman twice her age; her sallow skin stretched tightly over the bones of her face; eyes sunken into her skull and glazed over with pain. Meg had no idea what illness was devouring her mother from within since there was no physician within twenty miles of their village. The closest city was Lincoln, and there was sure to be a medical man there, but he wouldn’t come so far for someone like her mother. Physicians were for the powerful and wealthy, not for the likes of them.
Meg covered the chamber pot with a cloth to keep the stench from making her nose burn and eyes water, and left the room, quietly closing the door behind her. At least Jasper wasn’t in the house. Meg hated to be around him these days, although he didn’t pay her much mind. He was too preoccupied with the running of the estate and his search for Brendan. He didn’t tell her about it, but she knew he’d sent a man to Uncle Caleb’s house to enquire about Brendan’s whereabouts. Thankfully, Brendan wasn’t there, and Uncle Caleb swore that Brendan never passed that way.
Meg sighed as she made her way carefully down the stairs so as not to disturb the contents of the pot. When had a selfish and mischievous boy become a conniving and ruthless man? Meg knew Jasper had planted the evidence on the bodies of the men; she’d seen him take the prayer book, and the ring had been on his finger when he left the house, but gone once he got back. She had to admit that Brendan had always been her favorite, but she loved Jasper when he was a boy, and always defended him against their mother who called him “the spawn of the Devil,” if only in jest.
They’d had a happy family once, but now everything was different. Their father was dead, possibly murdered; their mother wasting away, Brendan missi
ng, possibly injured or dead, Meg’s own husband gone, and Jasper now the head of the family. Next week, Jasper and Mary would be wed, and Meg’s position would become even more untenable. Meg and Mary were friends once, but now Mary would be the lady of the house, and Meg’s position would be precarious as the widowed sister of her husband. Meg depended on Jasper’s generosity for her family’s survival, and she needed to be on hand to care for their mother. Mary wouldn’t do it, but she wouldn’t like Meg constantly there, undermining her authority.
Meg sighed. Her mother would be gone soon; that was clear enough, and her only chance for any happiness lay in getting married again – and soon. She was barely twenty-six, and although she’d borne two children, she was still fairly comely with a good figure and a fine house. But, as head of the family, Jasper would have to approve her choice, which could complicate matters since he wanted full control of the estate. He’d want Meg to marry a man he could rely on, and dominate, not someone who would stand up to him and speak his own mind. A man to suit them both would be hard to find.
Meg was so preoccupied with her thoughts that she barely noticed the two men watching her from under a leafy oak at the bottom of the yard. She emptied the chamber pot into the privy out back and stepped back out into the crisp October morning, gulping air after the noxious interior of the outhouse as two men approached her on foot. Their faces were obscured by the brims of their hats, but she was sure they weren’t local. Their clothes, although fine, were travel-stained, and swords hung at their hips, swinging as they walked toward her. Meg froze, unsure of what to do. They hadn’t done anything to frighten her, but she felt a shiver of apprehension snake down her spine, pinning her feet to the ground and driving breath from her lungs. She prided herself on her good instincts, and her instincts were screaming bloody murder.
“Good morrow, mistress,” the older of the two men said, giving her a brief nod and raising his hand to the brim of his hat in a casual greeting. “Fine day, is it not?” he asked, his eyes never leaving hers. He had a handsome face despite a faint scar that ran down the length of his cheek from temple to chin, but his eyes were strangely cold, light and narrowed as he cocked his head to the side, his mouth stretching into a humorless smile.
“Yes, it’s pleasantly warm for October,” Meg replied, praying that Jasper would come sauntering into the yard. If ever there was a time she’d be happy to see him, it would be now. “Is there something you wanted, gentlemen?”
“A cool drink would be most welcome,” the older man said, still smiling. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Edward Sexby, and this is Will Barrett, an associate and brother-in-arms. We have some business with your brother. Would we find him at home, mistress?”
So, they were looking for Jasper. Meg allowed herself to exhale and wiped her sweating brow with the back of her hand. “I’m afraid you’ve missed him, sir.”
She turned toward the house, dismayed to see them follow her.
“Perhaps we can wait for him?”
“I’m afraid he might be out all day. He has business on the estate. Maybe you can call around suppertime. I’d be happy to give Jasper a message,” she offered, hoping they would just leave. The younger man hadn’t said a word, but there was something in his expression that scared the wits out of her, and she didn’t scare easily.
“Jasper?” Sexby asked.
“Yes, my brother Jasper. Mayhap you have the wrong house.” Meg stopped before going into the house, reluctant to let them in, but Sexby was already pushing the door open and maneuvering his way inside. Meg was backed up against the table as the younger man positioned himself by the door, blocking her escape.
“It’s your brother Brendan we are looking for. Brendan Carr.” Sexby’s eyes were narrowed as he watched Meg. She suspected that any lie she told would be recognized immediately.
“Brendan is not here, Mr. Sexby. He left weeks ago and we haven’t seen him since.” Meg inched backward, her hips pressing against the wooden table as Sexby advanced on her.
“And where would he have gone, mistress?”
“I don’t know.” Meg was taken completely by surprise when Sexby’s gloved hand slapped her across her face with enough force to rattle her teeth.
“Shall we try this again? Where’s Brendan Carr, mistress?”
“I dddon’t know,” Meg replied, stammering with fear. “I truly don’t know. Jasper doesn’t know either. He’s been searching for him this whole while.” Sexby hit her again and this time she fell, her head just missing the corner of the table. Meg rolled into a ball, covering her head with her hands, but Will Barrett dragged her to her feet and drove a fist into her stomach.
“Speak, woman,” he growled.
Meg briefly thanked the good Lord that her boys were nowhere near the house. At least they would be spared. Whatever these men wanted, they meant to have it, and they would probably kill her to get it. She only hoped Jasper would take care of her children, being their nearest male relative.
“I don’t know,” she cried again. “I don’t know. Please, don’t hurt me,” she begged as she covered her face in anticipation of another blow. She instinctively felt Barrett get closer and raise his hand, but Sexby spoke before Barrett hit her again.
“She doesn’t know, Will,” he said, “leave her be. Perhaps we’ll have better luck with Jasper.”
Meg nearly jumped out of her skin as Sexby took off his glove and brushed a strand of hair from Meg’s face, carefully tucking it back into her cap. He brushed his fingers across her bruised cheek, his eyes suddenly warm and full of humor. “How about that cool drink now? And something to eat as well. Bread and cheese will do, but if you have something heartier, it’d be most welcome.”
The men settled themselves at the table, looking for all the world like welcome guests. Meg didn’t even try to pour the ale since she knew she’d spill it all over the table with her shaking hands. She just set the pitcher on the table and pushed two cups toward the men, before getting a fresh loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese that she’d been saving for the midday meal for her and the boys. Sexby’s eyes traveled to a sausage that was hanging above the hearth. “That, too.”
Meg reached for the sausage and wished she could use it to whack Sexby over the head, but a sausage was no weapon against two men with swords and fists. She just pushed it toward them and let them cut it up with their daggers. They ate slowly, enjoying their meal as if they were in a tavern and not in the home of a woman they’d just threatened and beaten.
Meg knew she should keep her mouth shut, but she didn’t think they’d hit her again, and she needed to know. “What do you want with Brendan?” she asked carefully, taking a step back just in case. Sexby’s amused expression wasn’t lost on her. He enjoyed making people cower, that was clear, and he could sense her fear like a dog.
“Your brother is to be taken back to Scotland and tried for desertion. You do know he deserted, do you not?” Sexby asked conversationally, his hand playing with the dagger he’d used to cut the sausage. He drove it into the wooden table, gratified by Meg’s shock. “Deserters are hanged.”
Meg felt suddenly very cold despite the warmth of the hearth glowing behind her. She didn’t know what to say or do, so she backed into a corner and sat on a low stool she’d used for nursing when her boys were small. She wanted to disappear into the stone walls and become invisible to these men, but all she could do was fold her hands in her lap and stare at the floor, praying that they would just leave.
Meg nearly jumped out of her skin as the door burst open, letting in a gust of cool air. The wind had picked up, and the house was momentarily filled with the smell of autumn which dispelled the revolting smell of the two men who likely hadn’t bathed in weeks. Jasper stood in the doorway, surveying the scene. He had a dagger at his belt, but it would do little good against two armed men; a fact that he perceived very quickly.
Sexby and Barrett rose to their feet, the food forgotten. “You better step outside, mistress,” Sexby
said to Meg without turning around, “for your own safety.” Meg bolted from her spot in the corner and darted outside. She wanted to run home as fast as her feet would carry her and make sure that her children were safe, but she had to stay close to make sure Jasper was all right after the men were done questioning him. She was sure that Jasper didn’t know where Brendan was, but that didn’t mean the men would believe him.
Meg slid to the ground beneath the oak tree and wrapped her arms around her knees, resting her forehead against them. She was shaking with fear — for herself, Jasper, but mostly Brendan. They wanted him dead. “Oh, Brendan,” she whispered, “what have you done?”
It seemed like an hour, but it was no more than ten minutes later that Sexby and Barrett walked out of the house, their hats on their heads and their swords sheathed and on their belts. They tipped their hats to Meg and wished her a good day as if she were a lady at court and not a quivering mess with a tear-stained face and wild hair, crouching beneath a tree. Meg finally willed herself to get up once the sound of hoofbeats died away, and shuffled on shaking legs toward the house. Jasper was calmly sitting at the table, a piece of sausage speared on his dagger and a cup of ale in his hand. He smiled indulgently at Meg and took a deep pull of his ale before pouring her a cup.
“You look like you need this,” he said, studying her bruised face. “Did they hurt you?”
Meg just shook her head, amazed at Jasper’s calm. He didn’t have a scratch on him. “What did you tell them?”
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