by Kris Kennedy
Sherwood and he exchanged a silent look. After making the appropriate rituals of greeting, and declining a cup of a hot drink, Tadhg picked his own place to stand, up against the tent wall, arms crossed, legs spread.
Four could play at this game.
In any event, this was entirely the reason Tadhg was here. He’d been picked for his skill with sword and blade; it was what he’d always been picked for. It was the reason he was here in the Holy Land, a member of Richard the Lionheart’s personal guard. Sword and blade were what Tadhg did.
Filleann an feall ar an bhfeallaire.
Tadhg shivered a little as the proverb his mother used to say returned to him, again, unbidden: Treachery returns to the betrayer. He shoved away his unease. ’Twas naught but an old saying. Bad deeds did not always revisit themselves on the doer.
At least, not yet.
Although one could be forgiven for calling the current situation into evidence.
The Muslim leader sipped his drink and eyed the small chest Tadhg had set at his feet, then looked back to Sherwood. “Who are we negotiating with? Who sends this reward for deeds not yet done?”
“He does not wish to be known,” replied Sherwood.
The man smiled thinly. “He does not trust me?”
“Not you, my lord, the rest of the world.”
“Yet he will know our names, and we will not know his.”
“It is not necessary for you to know,” Sherwood said curtly.
The leader sipped again, appearing not to notice the disrespect, but Tadhg was fairly certain he had very much noticed it, and was simply ignoring it. Biding his time.
That couldn’t be good.
The Nizari leader examined Sherwood a long time before replying. “Clearly he is a Christian.”
“Money is his name,” Sherwood retorted, his tone arrogant and dismissive. “If you must have a name, that is it.”
Sherwood thought himself clever. Tadhg thought he was lucky Rashīd ad-Dīn Sinān did not strike him down where he stood. Sinān was the leader of the powerful Muslim Nizari sect, the Assassins, the feared fidā’īyīn who executed outrageously bold political assassinations. Only an arrogant fool would accept the hospitality of such a man, then insult him.
Such was Sherwood.
Tadhg shifted slightly, preparing.
The movement drew Sinān’s eye, and his gaze fell on Tadhg. He felt it like a ship sail being yanked on by a strong wind. The man’s clear, dark eyes lanced through the center of him; he would never forget the feeling of being regarded by an Assassin.
Sherwood shifted on his rug. “Irish, give me the money.”
Tadhg pulled his gaze away with effort and handed over the wooden chest. It was so small, it didn’t seem it could contain enough of value to purchase the goodwill of this powerful leader, yet within were more riches than some small kingdoms had seen pass through their coffers. Aligning with the enemy of your enemy was wise, and Rashīd ad-Dīn Sinān had been opposing the crusaders main opponent, Saladin, for many years now. An alliance—sealed with money—made sense.
Additionally, it reduced the likelihood of having an Assassin show up in King Richard’s tent one night, dagger in hand.
Sherwood unlocked the chest and flipped it open. Flat silver coins built up a bed at the bottom, but the coins were not what drew the eye in the light of the oil lamps. What drew the eye, and low murmurs among these men who had seen so much, was the huge, blood-red ruby that sat atop the sea of silver discs. Gleaming, with crimson-black craggy knots and polished sloping sides, it was like a clot of blood spat up from the earth’s veins. Tadhg was shocked to see it. The ruby was King Richard’s prized gemstone, that which he loved above all others. It was, in his own words, priceless.
Except, apparently, it did have a price. And the Assassins had named it,
Sherwood shook the chest gently, so the ruby shuddered and the gems underneath shivered, rippling like steely sea creatures in a pit.
Sinān looked down at it briefly, then nodded.
Sherwood smiled condescendingly and pushed the chest over. “We understand one another then.”
A return smile spread across Sinān’s face, and Tadhg was quite certain Sherwood did not understand this man at all.
The Isma’ili leader got to his feet. All along the tent walls, his guards shifted forward a step. So did Tadhg.
“Tell your moneyed benefactor we accept,” Sinān said smoothly.
Sherwood gave a huge, satisfied grin.
“Remind him also that while allies share in the spoils of their endeavors, they, too, share the risks as well.”
Sherwood’s grin faltered, but he said only, “I will tell him,” and pushed to his feet.
“Tell yourself as well, English lord Sherwood,” Sinān replied.
The baron’s face paled at the use of his title. The Assassins’ leader’s gaze was level and unmoving. Sherwood gave a small, nervous bow, then made a sharp gesture to Tadhg and left the tent without a word.
Tadhg followed.
The sun was near to the horizon, and a cool evening breeze was already slicing low across the land. The moon was rising, sickle-sharp and bone white against a deepening blue sky. Tension rolled through Tadhg as they swiftly mounted up, then spurred off. They cantered down a long slope and up another. He glanced back over his shoulder, but there was no tent anymore, no fidā’i warriors, just low-scrub grasses, rolling hills and a darkening sky overhead. It might have all been a dream. Except for the fact Lord Sherwood was at his side. There was no dream that would include this fetid, ambitious man.
“What was that all about?”
“Diplomacy.”
“Aye?” Tadhg said amiably. “For it looked as though we bought something.”
Sherwood’s gaze snapped over. “Does the king pay you to ask questions?” he demanded, flicking his reins impatiently. “No. You’re paid to be quick with a blade and keep your mouth shut. So do it.”
Right. So, now Tadhg knew one thing: they had indeed bought something. And as there was only one thing he knew of that a man could buy from the leader of the Assassins, that narrowed things down immeasurably.
MAGDALENA TOUCHED THE RUBY with her fingertip. “So this is it, the ruby in the chest you carried?”
Tadhg’s gaze glanced off the gemstone. “That is it. After that, I watched Sherwood closely, all but attached myself to him.” His voice fell away.
“And?”
“And that is why I saw him walking with Conrad, two days before he was to be crowned, as two Assassins disguised as monks stabbed Conrad in the belly while he walked the gardens of Tyre. Sherwood was at his side.”
Her mouth rounded into a circle of shock, her eyes widened in horror. Tadhg did not know how she could go on looking at him. He’d have looked away a long time ago.
“But if you knew…didn’t everyone else know, too? Did no one see the dagger, the gem inside it…did no one read the runes? Did they not see it, and know?”
“Aye, a few of them saw it.”
“Then…?”
“Then it disappeared.”
“You took it,” she whispered. “To protect your king.”
“No. Sherwood took it. He knelt beside Conrad while he was still alive. He removed the dagger and thrust another back in.” She made a sound of horror. “Not to protect the king. To extort him.”
SOMETHING BROKE in Tadhg then. He’d spent his entire life climbing up from the simple, humble life he’d been born to, the fire in his belly demanding more than chores in the dirt and cows chewing their cud. He’d climbed so high he’d aligned himself with a golden king and the lordly nobles around him, and it had all come to this. Hired death. He was hired death.
Perhaps there was nothing higher, nothing better, but if there was, he realized he would never find it here, amid zealous nobles and golden kings and their ambitions and their wars.
Something that had been sawed at for years inside him, simply broke free, like a line snapping off a shi
p.
He watched, motionless and numb, as chaos erupted in the gardens below. The guards and Sherwood encircled the bleeding body of Conrad. Sherwood shouted orders, and the soldiers staggered off, some in pursuit of the fleeing Assassins, others into the castle proper, shouting for help. Leaving Sherwood alone with Conrad.
Sherwood got to his feet, stared down a moment, then in a decisive move, shoved the bloody dagger under his cloak and ran off, waving his arms and shouting.
Tadhg stared. Had he gone mad?
A crowd of men appeared at the other end of the garden, armed and shouting. Sherwood turned to them, looking wild, waving his arms, crying out, “Someone stole the weapon! After him! After him!” Then he took off running, out of the garden.
The bastard. What was he up to?
All hell broke loose in Tyre. Armed men and nobles ran hither and yon through the gardens and citadel, on the hunt for the murderers, who were soon caught, and an elusive thief, who could not be found. As for the missing murder weapon, Conrad’s guards reported they’d only caught a glimpse of it. And yet…and yet…they swore it looked to have had King Richard’s ruby embedded in its hilt.
Tadhg felt cold. It could not be.
Madness.
Some men lifted Conrad’s bloody body and carried it inside, and Tadhg, higher on the hill, was able to follow Sherwood’s path. He turned away, matching the baron’s steps, tracking him.
He intercepted the baron just inside the cool, wide corridors of the crusader fortress. Sherwood had just vaulted up a short stairway and turned down yet another, narrower hallway, when Tadhg came up behind him.
“Sherwood,” he said quietly.
The baron jumped, then turned with a nervous laugh. “Ah, the Irishman appears. Best be quick and go attend the king; danger abounds. Assassins have just murdered Conrad in the gardens.”
“Where is it?”
“Where is what?”
“The dagger.”
“What dagger?” he said slowly.
“The one you took out of Conrad’s belly.”
In a flash, Sherwood’s hand clamped down on his shoulder with reptilian fierceness, digging in. Then, almost immediately, he relaxed his grip and took a step back. “You are above your station when you question me, boy. This is between the king and I.”
“Where is it?” he said again.
The cold repetition seemed to unnerve Sherwood. “It is not your concern. I am taking it to…the king.”
Tadhg’s eye dropped to his tunic, stained red with Conrad’s blood. “Richard knows you have that?”
Sherwood hesitated only a moment. “Yes. Yes, he does. I am taking it…to him now.” He took a step back.
Tadhg took it with him. “Are you? That is most odd, for the king’s chambers do not lie along this corridor.”
Sherwood stared, then, glancing swiftly up and down the corridor, crowded Tadhg back into an alcove in the wall and spoke urgently.
“Be wise, Irish, and still your tongue, and this can work to both our advantages. Your skill lies in a sword, but swords only reach so far; the real weapon is knowledge. Knowledge is power. You wanted to know why we were visiting Sinān, eh? Well, now you do. That is knowledge. How do you like it? It stinks, does it not? But if you are wise, O’Malley, it can be turned to power.” His hand reached beneath his cloak and came out with the dagger. It was still coated in Conrad’s blood. “This, this is power.”
“What are you talking about?” Tadhg said. His words sounded far away and flat to his own ears.
Sherwood looked half-mad, grinning at him. “Look,” he said in a whisper, and tipped the blade on its side, and pointed with a finger also crusted in blood.
Distaste flowed like a bitter honey through Tadhg’s mouth, but coldness ran through his veins as he looked at the dagger, for Richard’s blood-red ruby glowed in the hilt. The one Tadhg had delivered in a payment chest, now embedded in the blade of an Assassin dagger.
No doubt about it now.
Sherwood gave a low laugh. “There are words on this blade too, O’Malley. They tell the world that Richard hired the Assassins to murder Conrad.” His hand closed around the dagger as he thrust his face near Tadhg’s, breathing fast. “Do you know who would want such a thing? Everyone. Do you know what they will pay? Anything we demand.” Tadhg could feel him shaking with excitement. “King Philippe of France, the Holy Roman Emperor, even Richard himself. Whoever wants England’s throne, can have it. No armies, no war, just this. We can be rich, Irish, rich beyond your wildest dreams.”
“My wild dreams are not of money,” Tadhg said tonelessly. And they were not. He dreamed of home, green and wild. Thirty years old and over half dead, he dreamed of something other than death and battle. He dreamed of being something different than what he was.
He dreamed of being something better than he was.
The breath slowed in his body. He loosed Sherwood’s hand, and the baron took a relieved step back. “Wise of you, Irish. Now, if you’ll just—”
Tadhg unsheathed his sword and raised it to one of the king’s closest companions and most noble councilors. “Give it to me,” he ordered in a low voice.
Sherwood’s jaw dropped, dumbfounded.
Tadhg didn’t know what he meant to do with it, all he knew was Sherwood could not be allowed to have this thing of death and treachery, that made him almost giddy.
The baron’s face contorted in disgust, and some measure of fear; it was evident in his darting eyes, his trembling lip. “You always were a fool, Irish,” he spat, then, hesitating a beat, turned and started to walk away down the corridor.
Tadhg thrust his arm up, blocking the passageway, his palm planted on the far wall.
Sherwood stared at his arm, then looked up into his eyes. “Lower your arm, Irish, or I will kill you,” he said in low fury.
“Try.”
They stared at each other, silent and breathing hard.
“What is this?” said a voice from behind.
Tadhg immediately recognized the booming voice of the Scottish earl of Huntington. He didn’t turn, but Sherwood jerked a frantic glance over his shoulder, then snarled, “Goddamned Celts are everywhere.” He called out more loudly, “Leave off this, Huntington. You are not wanted here.”
Then, at the other end of the corridor, the king of England appeared.
Tall and regal, Richard stopped short at the sight of his bodyguard and one of his greatest barons staring each other down. Tadhg’s blade hung low, but was gripped tight in his fist.
Richard, no stranger to tension and battle, took a wary step forward. His boots crunched on the gritty dirt and sand of the floor. “Sherwood?” He glanced at the Scottish earl briefly, then looked to his bodyguard. “Tadhg?”
Casting him one fierce glance, Sherwood swirled away with a suave smile and said smoothly to the king, “We must speak, my liege. There is news. And…,” he threw Tadhg a bitter, furious look. “I have something for you.”
They walked off together. Tadhg stood behind in the cool corridor, the blood hot in his sword arm, watching them go.
“I do not think Sherwood likes you,” said the earl of Huntington as he came up, his voice not booming now, but low and confidential.
Tadhg gave a bark of cold laughter. “The feeling is mutual.”
“Watch out for him.”
“I do.”
“And look to yourself as well. Sherwood has the ear of powerful people.”
Tadhg shrugged. “The king is not easily fooled.”
“There are other ears in the world.” The earl ran his fingers through his beard, then laid a hand on Tadhg’s shoulder. “Should you run into any trouble, O’Malley, Scotland is not so far away from Ireland after all.”
“I have not been to Ireland in half my life,” Tadhg said flatly.
Huntington looked down the corridor, to where Sherwood’s cloak was just flicking around the corner. “Perhaps it is time for a long visit.”
Tadhg closed his hand around
the earl’s forearm in a brief, hard clasp. “My thanks, my lord.”
The earl lifted his bearded chin with a jerk. “Go see to the king. God knows what Sherwood has planned, but it’s sure to be god-awful. He’ll need someone he can trust by his side.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
MAGGIE STILL SAT astride him, listening hard, her eyes never leaving his, her hand softly stroking his arm.
“So this is the thing they want,” she murmured. “This dagger, this proof of the king’s treachery. That is terrible.”
“Aye, that it is.”
“And you said nothing of Sherwood’s intent?”
Tadhg shrugged. “To whom would I have said it? If I’d have roused the hue and cry, it would have been my word against Sherwood’s. And,” he added in a grim voice, “perhaps the king’s. There was nothing noble about this deed from beginning to end, Maggie, from the king on down. Sherwood did indeed save the king by taking the dagger, but he meant to use it to betray the king for his own purposes.”
“Betray your noble king who would see to the murder of another,” she said softly.
He could not contest any of it.
Her gaze was steady and appraising in the firelight, and Tadhg felt how tight his jaw was clamped, how cold his blood felt, under that watchful regard. Then she slid cool fingertips across his chest, accepting him nonetheless. “And yet, you serve him still?”
“I do, for the alternatives are far, far worse.”
“You speak of my king.” Her words level, neither jest nor indignation, her eyes as complicated as ever.
“Philippe is not the only alternative, lass, nor the worst among them, but for all that, your king is one of the most conniving men in all of Christendom,” he said tiredly. “The best thing about him is that he will one day die. He has a single talent: destroying others. Look to the company he keeps: Prince John is his constant plaything.”
“Our kings are not good men, no,” she agreed softly.
Tadhg’s hand tightened on her hips. “We do not need them to be good men. We need them to be good kings. And Richard is better than Philippe, by leagues and leagues.”