The men watched Meg with blunt lust or animal indifference as she limped over to a big oak and collapsed at its base. Neither the coarse men nor her own bruised body bothered her nearly as much as the waking dream that had come to her during the grueling ride…a newborn babe laughing up at her with eyes of Glendruid green.
Have you bled yet, small falcon?
No.
Nor would Meg for nine months more, if she had dreamed truly.
Dominic, will you ever know your child? And if you do, will you believe it is yours?
A hand shook Meg roughly.
“Get up, witch, and serve your betters their supper,” Eadith said.
“Eadith! What are you doing here? Did they steal you, too?”
The other woman smiled bitterly. “I haven’t a silver coin to my name. Why would any man steal me? Nay, I came to the Reevers willingly.”
“Water does find its own level, doesn’t it?”
“Mind your tongue, witch,” Eadith said, slapping Meg smartly. “I have waited long for this. Move your donkey’s arse and serve us supper or I’ll give you to Edmond the Cruel for instruction in your new profession.”
When she would have struck Meg again, a knight who was somewhat less ragged than the others stepped forward and jostled Eadith aside.
“Rufus wouldn’t like that,” the knight said calmly to Eadith. “He plans on using the witch first. Any marks on her, he wants to be the one to put them there. He was quite clear about that this morning. Remember?”
Eadith’s mouth flattened into a sour line, but she made no move to strike Meg again. Eadith knew very well that Rufus had plans for the Glendruid witch. It had been Eadith who had put many of the plans into the Reever’s thick head.
“Is this how you repay Blackthorne’s kindness?” Meg asked, rising and adjusting her mantle around her shoulders against the damp mist and covetous eyes of the Reevers. “Treachery?”
“What kindness?” Eadith asked scornfully. “I was the daughter of a keep as great as Blackthorne and I was turned into a common servant.”
“Your keep fell to the Normans.”
Anger tightened Eadith’s already drawn features. Her pale eyes flashed like an animal’s with reflected firelight.
“It was not a fair battle,” she said curtly. “They came upon the keep through treachery.”
“Fair or foul, the result was the same,” Meg said. “Your family and husband were slain and you were thrown on the mercy of neighbors who fared no better than you. You were a homeless, childless widow when Lord John rescued you, gave you a respectable position, and promised to find you a husband.”
Eadith smiled thinly. “But first, John tried to make me pregnant.”
Meg’s breath came in sharply.
“Didn’t you know?” Eadith said coldly. “The lord of the keep tried to rut on every female before he gave permission for her marriage.”
Though Meg began to speak, Eadith gave no opening.
“John promised every girl the same—breed his child and become mistress of the keep. But it never happened, because after his cursed witch wife left him, his staff became so limp no seed ever came from it no matter what whore’s tricks were tried.”
A shout from the boundary of the rude forest camp distracted Eadith. Rufus was returning to the bonfire with more supplies from Carlysle Manor. As Meg watched, all but one knight and a ragged poacher with downcast face crowded around to see what bounty the manor had supplied this day.
“Ale?” shouted one Reever questioningly.
“Aye,” Rufus said as he dismounted, grinning.
He walked to the fire and dragged off his helm, revealing the coarse mane of red hair that was the source of his name.
“Is there food?” Eadith asked rather sharply.
“Meat, bread, and cheese.”
“What about a wench?” called another Reever.
“We’re promised one of the kitchen wenches as soon as she quits bleeding.”
“Why wait?” muttered one of the Reevers. “She’ll be bleeding when we finish, like as not. One wench isn’t enough to service us.”
Meg acted as though she hadn’t heard. Beneath the mantle her hands went instinctively to her womb. A chill that had nothing to do with the damp morning condensed beneath her skin.
“Any word from the Norman bastard?” Eadith asked.
A shrug was the only answer Rufus gave. His eyes lit when he saw Meg standing on the opposite side of the fire.
“Stand by me,” he commanded.
Outwardly calm, Meg walked around the fire toward Rufus, stopping well short of him. The look in his eyes as he watched her made her stomach clench and bile rise in her throat.
The expression on Eadith’s face was both irritated and resigned. The Reever’s well-known lust for the mistress of Blackthorne Keep had been one of the levers Eadith had used to pry Rufus from Duncan’s side. She was in no position to complain when Rufus displayed that lust for all to see.
“Do at least wait until moonrise tomorrow,” Eadith said impatiently. “Rutting on her will be much more satisfying when the Norman bastard is here to watch.”
Nausea rolled through Meg. The chill beneath her skin went deeper, despite the bonfire’s heat.
“What madness is this?” she asked with aching calm.
“No madness,” Eadith retorted. “’Tis but revenge against the Norman bastard and the Glendruid witch who is his whore.”
“What revenge.”
There was neither question nor emotion in Meg’s voice, simply an unnatural calm that came as ice possessed her soul.
“You should have let the Norman bastard die of the poison I gave him,” Eadith said savagely. “Then I could have persuaded Duncan to take the keep and all would have been well. But the bastard lived and I shall have my revenge despite your interfering.”
“Duncan. Where is he.”
Again Meg’s voice was flat, toneless, almost inhuman.
Eadith shrugged. “Gone north with his knights and good riddance. The border clans will cut short that traitor’s life before he can enjoy the fruits of his treachery.”
“He is not one of you.”
“Aye,” Eadith snarled. “We have no traitors left among us. Except you, witch, and we won’t have you long.”
Meg’s unblinking stare made the Reevers look from one to the other with growing uncertainty. Muttering ran through them as they measured the uncanny stillness of their Glendruid captive.
Only Eadith was undeterred by Meg’s unflinching green eyes. The vengeance Eadith had sought since her family’s defeat by Normans was finally within her grasp.
“Let me tell you what is waiting for you, traitor,” Eadith said with relish. “At moonrise tomorrow your bastard lord will arrive with thrice your weight in gold and gems.”
A hidden motion of Meg’s body made her remaining jewelry shiver musically. The small cries were stilled almost as soon as they began.
“We will take the ransom,” Eadith continued. “Then you will be given to the Reevers while your husband watches. When there is no more sport to be had from either of you, we will kill him.”
Meg said nothing.
“Are you too slack-witted to understand what your siding with the Normans will cost you?” Eadith demanded angrily. “Soon you will know what I endured. You will be orphaned, widowed, childless, and defiled!”
The tilt of Meg’s head made golden bells chime. It was the only sound she made for several breaths.
“Dominic le Sabre will not come for me,” Meg said.
“He will come. He must. Else you die.”
“Then I die. Send for a priest to shrive me.”
The certainty in Meg’s voice finally penetrated Eadith’s triumph. She stared in shock.
“What are you saying?” Rufus demanded, stepping so close that Meg had to tilt back her head to see his face. “Of course Dominic will come to your rescue. Without you, he will lose Blackthorne Keep.”
“To whom?�
� Meg asked flatly. “Duncan will not take it. You cannot.”
“We can,” retorted Rufus. “We will.”
“’Tis a pity I will already be dead,” Meg said, stepping back to look around the camp. “I would enjoy seeing this scabrous band attack Blackthorne Keep. Once the Sword stopped laughing, he would gut you and leave you for the crows.”
“There will be no one but Thomas the Strong left to marshal the keep’s defenses,” Eadith cut in. “He is able enough, but stupid.”
“Simon will fight as fiercely and cleverly as Dominic.”
“Simon won’t be there,” Rufus said. “We told Dominic that he could have one knight accompany him with the ransom.”
Meg nodded. “I see. That knight will be Simon the Loyal, of course.”
“Yes,” Rufus said, smiling with satisfaction.
“’Tis your plan to murder them both.”
“There was no other choice after the Norman bastard survived and began doting on you—and you on him,” Rufus said. “It was clear there would soon be an heir. If an heir was born, Blackthorne Keep would be lost to us.”
“So you tried to murder my husband during the hunt,” Meg said. “But we escaped.”
“You escaped Rufus,” Eadith said. “But you didn’t escape my snare.”
“Ah…It was you who made Marie ill so that I would stay behind.”
“It was a pleasure to watch the whore vomit. It was an even greater pleasure to watch the Norman bastard’s face when he finally returned and I told him you had run off to join Duncan of Maxwell.”
“That was stupid of you,” Meg said neutrally.
Eadith smiled.
“You are too greedy for revenge,” Meg continued.
“How so?”
“You want Dominic to ransom me, yet you couldn’t resist twisting the knife by telling him I ran off to another man.”
Eadith shrugged. “No matter. It will just make the bastard’s desire to pursue and punish you all the greater.”
“Then you were the one who kept spreading gossip that Duncan and I were lovers.”
Though there was no question in Meg’s voice, Eadith answered, relishing every word.
“Aye. Seeing the bastard’s jealousy was very sweet. You cast your spell most thoroughly, witch. And now you will pay.”
Meg’s soft laughter was more shocking than curses could have been. Uneasily the Reevers shifted and looked at the descending darkness as though expecting ghosts to rise from the damp ground.
“Ah, handmaiden,” Meg said. “You have outsmarted yourself. ’Tis no great task, granted, but ’tis very amusing to watch.”
The cool scorn in Meg’s voice was like a whip laid across Eadith’s body.
“What are you ranting about?” she demanded.
“Enthralled? The Sword?” Meg laughed once, a sound that made the Reevers flinch. “Eadith, you are a fool to the soles of your feet.”
Meg turned to the Reevers. When she spoke, her voice carried clearly despite its eerie calm.
“Hear me, Reevers. Dominic le Sabre wants Blackthorne Keep, not me. If he gave me jeweled jesses and seemed to hang on my every smile, it was in hope of seducing a child from my body, not because I enthralled him.”
Eadith began to speak, only to be silenced by an abrupt gesture from Rufus.
“Why should my husband give a king’s ransom for a faithless Glendruid witch who, even if she is fertile, will not give him a male heir?” Meg asked reasonably. “Dominic kept me only because the vassals would have risen up if he set me aside.”
“All the more reason for him to ransom you,” Eadith retorted.
Once again Meg laughed, and once again Reevers looked aside, wishing themselves well away from the lady who faced them with such amused certainty of their defeat—and her own death.
“You are so greedy yourself,” Meg said to Eadith, “yet you don’t allow for greed in others.”
“Speak plainly,” Eadith snapped.
“Thrice my weight in jewels and gold will beggar Blackthorne Keep.”
“Aye!”
“Who pays for the knights that protect vassals from the likes of you?” Meg asked gently. “Who pays the taxes that will refill the keep’s coffers to buy knights? Whose lives will be made living hell if their lord is impoverished?”
A muttering ran through the Reevers as they understood what Meg was saying.
“Aye,” she agreed. “The vassals pay. They like me well enough, but they like feeding their children better.”
“Don’t listen to her,” Eadith said quickly. “She’ll enthrall you just as she—”
Rufus cuffed Eadith into silence with casual brutality. Meg kept talking, knowing she might well receive the same treatment herself at any moment.
“While you stand here and count the ransom you will never receive,” Meg said, “I’ll warrant that the lord of Blackthorne is appealing to the archbishop to have our marriage annulled.”
Frowning, Rufus yanked absently at a lock of his long mustache.
“An abbey should be inducement enough for the annulment,” Meg continued gently, relentlessly. “But since Dominic is such a clever tactician, he will probably offer a fine stone church as well.”
“What of—”
Meg kept on talking, not allowing Rufus a chance to voice his question.
“Before my flesh is cold in its grave, Dominic will be wed to a fine, fertile Norman wife who will give him enough heirs to stand hip to thigh across the land.
“You have outsmarted yourselves, Reevers. Blackthorne Keep is Norman now. Thanks to your foolish greed, it will remain so until the Kingdom of God comes again to earth.”
“’TIS shrewd of my wife to demoralize them,” Dominic said when Sven paused in his story. “Did she recognize you?”
“I think not. She made no attempt to speak privately with me.”
Sven hesitated and looked around the great hall. No one except Simon and Old Gwyn was close enough to overhear.
“I suspect that at least two of the Reevers men spy for Duncan,” Sven added.
“No surprise in that,” Dominic said. “The Scots Hammer is shrewd when his passions don’t rule him.”
“One of the spies slipped away from camp well before I did,” Sven said.
“Then we shall likely see Duncan soon,” Dominic said. “What else did Meg say?”
Sven looked at Dominic and wished himself anywhere at all but Blackthorne Keep. His lord was dressed for battle from helm to chausses. The hilt of his gleaming, well-used sword was never more than inches from his hand.
With a stifled curse, Sven ran his fingers through his artfully dirty hair and spoke again.
“Your lady asked once more for a priest, saying that if she died unshriven she would surely haunt them as Lady Anna haunts the keep.”
“Turning the knife.” Dominic smiled savagely. “’Tis a foretaste of revenge for what they did to her. My small falcon is quite fierce.”
Sven looked toward Old Gwyn.
“Is Lady Margaret a good liar?” Sven asked bluntly.
“Nay.” The flat denial lay like a stone in the silence. “Meg is like a sacred spring, too clear to hide even the deepest parts of her soul.”
“I thought so,” Sven muttered.
As Dominic looked from one to the other, the smile on his face faded, leaving the savagery behind.
“What are you saying?” he demanded.
“Lady Margaret believed every word she spoke,” Sven said simply. “That’s why the Reevers believed her.”
“What sane person wouldn’t believe her?” Gwyn asked, watching Dominic intently. “It would be madness to ruin your estates in order to ransom a wife who can’t give you a son.”
“Enough!” Dominic commanded.
Gwyn kept talking as though she hadn’t heard. Her words were as calm and relentless as a cold rain.
“After moonrise tomorrow, the Reevers will defile Meg,” the old woman said. “Even if she survives what they do
to her, it will be impossible for you to keep Meg as your wife. You will set her aside and soon the keep will have a new lady. And you, lord…then you will finally have the sons you want more than you want anything else on earth.”
“Simon.”
Though Dominic said no more, his brother answered the unspoken question.
“You are renowned as a tactician,” Simon said, choosing each word with care. “It would be a poor tactician who lost a war trying to win a battle that would gain him nothing.”
“Explain.”
Simon hesitated. He had never heard quite that tone of voice from his brother. Simon would be well pleased if he never heard it again.
“You came here for land and sons,” Simon said after a moment. “That is your war. Half of it is won. The land is yours.”
Dominic said nothing.
“If you fight this battle on the Reevers’ terms,” Simon resumed, “you have nothing to gain and much to lose. Nor will the vassals of Blackthorne Keep require that you sacrifice everything—including them—in a futile battle.
“Meg knows that as well as you do. So, now, do the Reevers.”
Simon looked away from his brother. Like Dominic’s voice, his expression was a terrible combination of rage and anguish.
“Finish it,” Dominic said bleakly.
“God’s blood,” muttered Simon. “’Tis clear enough. Meg does not expect you to ransom her.”
With a speed that made his heavy war cloak flare, Dominic turned his back on the people in the great hall. He didn’t want them to see what must lie naked in his eyes, memories and Meg’s words turning like knives in his soul.
I could be a liar, a cheat, a robber, a felon…none of it matters to you. One womb serves as well as another, so long as it comes with Blackthorne Keep.
Gauntleted hands became fists.
Is Dominic unkind to you?
To his Glendruid wife? To his sole hope of legal heirs? Does my husband strike you as a stupid man? My jesses, after all, are almost the equal of his fine peregrine’s.
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