“Are you ill?” the old woman asked, her voice suddenly earnest rather than wry.
“No. Just…” Meg’s voice died.
“Just what?”
“Clumsy.”
“Pah. Better to accuse Blackthorne’s cats of barking than to accuse you of clumsiness.”
Smiling, Meg turned around and hugged the old woman with a need that went deeper than words. Old Gwyn’s seamed face, white hair, and faded green eyes were as familiar to Meg as her own hands.
“What is it, child?” Gwyn asked finally.
“My father…”
Meg’s voice faded as she remembered John’s flat denial that he was her father.
At the mention of John, followed by silence, Old Gwyn’s pale green eyes went to the shelf where a second vial of his medicine was kept in reserve for future need. The shelf was empty.
“Is he worse?” Gwyn asked.
“Not really.”
“Oh. With the last of his medicine used up, I assumed he was failing.”
“Medicine?” Meg looked over her shoulder. Her breath came in swiftly. “It’s gone!”
“You didn’t take it to him?”
“No.”
Uneasily Meg went to the table and searched among the pots. She found only leaves and dried flowers. The shelves yielded nothing unexpected when she went through them quickly, shifting the contents in her pursuit of the missing medicine vial.
“That’s odd,” Meg said finally.
Frowning, she stepped into the outside aisle, grabbed a fat candle from its holder, and went back into the herbal. Gwyn watched through narrowed eyes as Meg rummaged efficiently through the nooks and shelves, bins and basins of the room.
When Meg finally gave up, the fear she had felt in Lord John’s room returned redoubled.
“Gone?” Gwyn asked.
“Yes. And the antidote with it. Perhaps Duncan fetched both. John was beset by coughing and I was in the mews.”
The old woman said something in an ancient language. Whether it was a curse or a prayer, Meg didn’t know, for she couldn’t hear the words clearly enough.
“I like this not,” Gwyn muttered finally. She looked at Meg. “Say nothing of it to anyone. We need no more trouble.”
Meg nodded. “Yes.”
“Can you make more?” Gwyn asked.
“Of the medicine itself, yes. I have an ample supply of the seeds. The antidote will be much more difficult to replace. The plant grows only in undisturbed ground. This year we plowed up everything in hope of a good crop.”
With a grunt, Gwyn rubbed her sore knuckles.
“The wet wind bothers you,” Meg said softly. “Have you taken the medicine I made for you?”
The old woman seemed not to hear.
“Gwyn?”
“My dreams have been disturbed, but not by chilblains,” she whispered.
A cold breath of unease slid down Meg’s spine. Saying nothing, she waited to hear whatever the old Glendruid woman had gleaned from the world that was visited only in sleep.
“What was written in the past shall become in the future. No one, neither lord nor vassal, escapes. The winds of change are blowing, bringing the call of the war horn and the howl of the wolf.”
Gwyn blinked as the vision passed, saw the expression on Meg’s face, and sighed.
“Tell me about your father,” Gwyn said in a low voice.
“He denies being my father.”
Strangely, Gwyn smiled. There was little of warmth or humor in the curve of her lips. Even at her advanced age, the old Glendruid had a full set of hard white teeth. They gleamed as a wolf’s teeth gleam, in warning.
“Did he threaten to set you aside and put Duncan in your place?” Gwyn demanded.
“Only if I don’t marry Duncan.”
“What of Dominic le Sabre?”
“He is to be slain even as we stand before the priest,” Meg said bluntly.
Gwyn’s breath came out in a low hiss. “The Church will not abide that.”
“The Church will receive an abbey.”
“A small price for a large betrayal.”
“Not really,” Meg said grimly. “The Church has been seeking ways to lessen Henry’s power. Duncan will be beholden to Church rather than to king. No cry of excommunication will be raised. If I can see that, surely John can as well.”
“By Hell’s deepest reaches, John is a clever man,” Gwyn muttered. “Would that he were compassionate, too.”
“There is nothing in him now but a burning need to see his son inherit his lands.”
Gwyn hissed again, shaking her head. “What of you, Glendruid daughter? Will you take Duncan as your husband?”
“I refused.”
“Good.”
“Then John ordered Duncan to begin the slaughter immediately….”
The old woman cocked her head as though listening. “I hear nothing from the bailey but wenches calling to one another about their sweethearts.”
Meg took a deep breath and spread her hands. “I told him I would do what I must.”
There was a silence so deep that the tiny sounds of flame eating into candle wax could be heard. After a long time Gwyn sighed.
“Is it true?” Meg asked finally.
“That you aren’t John’s daughter?”
“Yes.”
“’Tis true,” Gwyn said casually. “He is not your father. His stepbrother was a man full of laughter and smiles. Anna went to him two fortnights before her wedding.”
“Why?” Meg asked, shocked.
“She had no love of John, but knew the heir to the Glendruid Wolf must somehow be born.”
“The heir to the Glendruid Wolf?” Meg asked. “What are you talking about?”
“A man who would be wise enough to bring peace to our lands.”
“Ahhh, the fabled Glendruid male. Instead, I was born. Female. A disappointment to all.”
Old Gwyn smiled and touched Meg’s cheek with a hand as soft and dry as candle flame.
“You were a boon to your mother, Meg. She enjoyed John’s stepbrother, but she didn’t love him. She felt neither passion nor love for John. But you she loved. For you, she endured John until the vassals had learned to love you, too.”
“And then she walked out to the haunted place and never returned.”
“Yes,” Gwyn said simply. “It was a blessing for her, Meg. Hell had nothing to teach her after living with Lord John.”
Turning away, Gwyn looked at the herbal without seeing any of it.
“Would that we would be blessed now,” Gwyn whispered after a few moments. “But I fear that by the time a man is born who can wear the Glendruid Wolf, there will be nothing left to inherit but the wind.”
“What is the Glendruid Wolf?” Meg asked, perplexed. “I’ve heard vassals whisper of it occasionally, but they fall silent when they realize I’m listening.”
“’Tis a pin. A pin that was old a thousand years ago.”
“What does it look like?”
“A wolf’s head cast in silver with eyes made of colorless gems so hard not even steel can scratch them,” Gwyn said. “The pin is the size of a man’s hand.”
“You never mentioned this to me before.”
“There was no purpose. There was nothing to be done.”
“And now?” Meg asked.
“Change comes. A wise woman hopes for the best and prepares for the worst.”
“What is the worst?”
“War. Famine. Disease. Death.”
Meg barely suppressed a shudder at hearing her worst fears spoken aloud by Old Gwyn.
“And the best?” she whispered.
“That the man who wears the Glendruid Wolf will bring peace with him.”
A thrill of hope coursed through Meg at the thought of a land no longer riven by strife. The feeling was not unlike what she had known while she watched Dominic handle the peregrine with such exquisite tenderness.
“Tell me everything you know about the pin,�
� Meg demanded.
“’Tis little enough.”
“’Tis better than nothing,” retorted Meg.
Gwyn smiled slightly. The smile faded as she spoke.
“The Glendruid Wolf was worn by our headmen back to the dawn of memory. As long as it was worn, peace reigned and we prospered.”
“What happened?”
“A brother’s envy. A woman seduced. A love betrayed.”
Grimly Meg smiled. “The story has a familiar sound to it.”
“Glendruids are but human. The headman was slain from ambush. The pin was taken from his cloak.”
Meg waited.
Gwyn said nothing more.
“What happened then?” Meg asked.
“From that day forth, strife reigned. And from that day forth Glendruid women conceived few babes, for there was little of pleasure in their lives; and without pleasure, no Glendruid female will quicken with a man’s seed.”
“Didn’t our people look for the talisman if it meant that much to them?”
The old woman shrugged. “They searched. They found only their own greed. The pin was never seen again. ’Tis said it is hidden within one of the ancient mounds between here and the mountain, guarded by the ghost of the adulteress.”
Meg had an odd sense that there was more to the story. Yet even as she started to ask, she looked into the old Glendruid’s eyes and knew that no more would be said.
“I wish that I had the pin in my hand right now,” Meg said finally.
“Don’t wish that.”
“Why?”
“Whether you gave the talisman now to Dominic le Sabre or Duncan of Maxwell, blood would run through Blackthorne’s meadows rather than clear water.”
Meg made a low sound of distress. “I fear you’re right. My poor people. When the land is at war, nobles might win or lose, but the simple folk always lose.”
“Aye,” Gwyn whispered. “Always.”
“Why can’t men see that the land needs healing rather than more hurting?” Meg demanded.
“They aren’t Glendruid to understand the ways of water and growing things. They know only the ways of fire.”
“John’s plan will be the ruin of Blackthorne Keep and its people,” Meg said. “If we sow blood instead of seed this spring, the survivors will live only long enough to die of famine in the next winter.”
“Aye. If King Henry doesn’t kill them first. If John follows his plan, the king and his great barons won’t leave one stone standing upon another in all of Blackthorne.”
Meg closed her eyes. She had only until tomorrow to find a way to save the land and the people she loved more than she loved anything in her life.
“What will you do, Meg?”
She stared at Gwyn, wondering if the old woman had somehow seen into her mind.
“Will you warn the Norman lord?” Gwyn asked.
“To what purpose? It would be kinder—and quicker—to slay Duncan with poison. I cannot bear to see him hanged. Or worse. No. I cannot.”
Meg’s mouth thinned as she continued. “In any case, Duncan’s death would change nothing. The Reevers would slaughter the Normans in reprisal and Blackthorne would be lost.”
Gwyn nodded. “You are your mother’s daughter, Margaret. Shrewd and kind at once. What will you do? Flee into the forest and the haunted place?”
“How did you know?”
“It was what your mother did. But it won’t help you. Duncan is as shrewd as you.”
“What do you mean?” Meg asked.
“He has stationed one of his men at the gatehouse. You are a prisoner, and the keep is your jail.”
6
DOMINIC LOOKED UP AS HIS brother strode into the high keep room where the squire Jameson was helping Dominic dress. At the moment, all he wore was a cape for warmth and water from his recent bout with a razor. His hair was neatly cut to lie close to his head underneath a helmet and his beard was gone. The effect was to make him more formidable, rather than less. Without the softening effect of the beard, there was nothing to mute the angular lines of his cheekbones or the stark, inverted V of his black eyebrows.
“Are the preparations complete?” Dominic asked as he dried his face.
“The chapel is ready,” Simon said, “your knights wait to stand with you in front of God and the Saxon rabble, and the men-at-arms are looking forward to the wassail and wenches.”
“What of the bride?” Dominic asked. “Has anyone seen her?”
“Not in the flesh. Her handmaiden is everywhere, running about like a chicken with its head cut off, shrilling at the laundress for a garment still damp or at the seamstress for a poorly sewn hem or at the tanner for shoes too harsh for noble feet.”
Dominic grunted and rubbed the drying cloth over his powerful body.
“It sounds like I won’t have to go and drag Lady Margaret from her rooms,” he said.
“I hope the lady dresses grandly,” Simon said after a few moments.
“No matter. ’Tis not her clothes I’ll be marrying.”
“Yes, but the bride is supposed to be the best-dressed of all the maids at the wedding, is she not?”
Dominic raised one black eyebrow at his brother in silent demand.
“Marie is wearing the scarlet silk you gave her,” continued Simon slyly, “and around her forehead is the golden circlet with its fine rubies that was your present after Jerusalem fell.”
“If Lady Margaret wishes such baubles to wear, she will have to be more civil to her husband,” Dominic said under his breath. He threw the drying cloth with emphasis onto the table. “A great deal more civil!”
Simon snickered. “Perhaps you should send her to Marie for instruction.”
Dominic ignored his brother in favor of Jameson.
“No,” he told the squire, “I’ll need heavier undergarments than that. Dress me for battle.”
The squire looked surprised. “Sire?”
“The hauberk,” Dominic said impatiently.
Jameson looked shocked. “For your marriage?”
The look on Dominic’s face sent a surge of red up the squire’s smooth cheeks. Hurriedly the boy retrieved his lord’s soft leather undergarments from the wardrobe. Next came the chausses, whose metal bands would protect Dominic’s shins from blows during a battle.
A curt movement of Dominic’s head refused the chausses. Relieved, Jameson went to the wardrobe for the chain mail tunic. The garment was slit in front and back for riding and quite heavy. With every movement, the metal rings on the hauberk sang quietly of battle and death.
“God’s teeth,” Simon muttered as he watched Dominic’s squire fasten the flexible metal tunic into place. “I’ve never known a bridegroom to go to his wedding wearing a hauberk.”
“Perhaps I’ll start a new fashion.”
“Or bury an old one?” his brother asked silkily.
Dominic’s smile was like a drawn sword. “See that you follow my fashion, brother.”
“Will you wear it to the bedchamber?”
“When you handle a brancher,” Dominic said dryly, “caution saves many regrets.”
Simon laughed aloud at Dominic’s comparison of his future bride to a young, recently captured falcon that had never known man’s touch.
“She is hardly a fledgling snatched fresh from the branch,” Simon said. “She has barely a handful of years less than you.”
“True. What you forget is that we fly females rather than tiercels in the hunt because the female is not only larger than the male falcon, she is far more fierce.”
Dominic settled his hauberk into place with a muscular shrug that spoke of a decade’s experience at war. The heavy hood lay on his shoulders in gleaming, sliding folds of chain mail.
“Sven has heard nothing to suggest that Lady Margaret is so redoubtable,” Simon pointed out. “Rather the opposite. The vassals love her greatly for her kindness.”
“Falcons are always kind to their own.”
“Your helm, sire,” the
boy said neutrally.
“I think not,” Dominic said. “The hauberk’s hood will have to serve.”
The squire set aside the bleak metal helm with visible relief.
“Will John be attending the ceremony?” Simon asked.
“I heard something about a pallet being readied in the church,” Dominic said indifferently.
“Your sword, sire,” Jameson said, holding out the heavy sword with both hands.
The squire’s expression plainly stated that he hoped his lord would refuse the weapon as he had the helm and chausses.
Jameson was to be disappointed. Dominic buckled the sword in place with a few swift movements. Its grim weight at his left side was as familiar to him as darkness was to the night.
“My mantle,” he said.
Within moments Jameson appeared at Dominic’s side with a richly embroidered damask mantle. Gemstones and pearls winked and shimmered within the elaborate weave, suggesting laughter buried in the luxurious folds. It was a mantle fit for a sultan. Indeed, it had been a sultan’s gift to the knight who had prevented his men from defiling the sultan’s five wives after the palace had fallen.
“Not that one,” Dominic said. “The black one. It lies more easily over chain mail and sword.”
With a sigh, Jameson traded the fine cape for the heavy black wool. In its own almost secret way, the cape was just as costly, for it had a deep border of sable from a forest a thousand miles distant.
Dominic swirled the cape into place with a deft motion. Wool and fur settled luxuriantly around his body, concealing all but the occasional glint of chain mail and the gleaming length of Dominic’s heavy sword. Jameson fastened the cape in place with the simple iron pin Dominic wore into battle.
Watching, Simon shook his head in a combination of amusement and rue. Even naked, Dominic was a formidable man; dressed as he was now, he was a blunt warning to the people of the realm that a new lord had come.
A lord who meant to be obeyed.
“You’ll have the maiden fainting with fear at the sight of you,” Simon said.
“That would be a refreshing change,” Dominic muttered.
But he didn’t say it loudly enough to be overheard. He had told no one about his brush with the lady of the keep dressed as a cotter’s child. The ease with which she had fooled him still rankled his pride.
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