by Kris Kennedy
He began tugging off his gloves. “Find the woman,” he ordered. “Ask if anyone has seen a French woman escorted by one extremely well-armed man. Mention her hair.”
“Her hair, sir?” said one uncertainly.
“Yes, her hair,” he snapped as a port official hurried up. “Did you not see it? I would know it anywhere, as will any man with a brain in his head. And her skin, her eyes… If they’ve seen her, they will remember.”
His men started off as the official arrived, smiling at the sight of Sherwood’s expensive boots and cloak, then frowning at all the armed men rushing by without registering or paying any port fees.
“Sir, I’ll need to see your…”
The man’s voice died off as Sherwood brushed past him. “Where is Sir Odo? De Civili? The French lieutenant?”
The soldier gaped, then hurried after. “In the dockmaster’s office, sir, just over this way…”
Sherwood followed the sweep of his hand and flung the door wide. Inside, a handful of lazing French soldiers sat on spindly stools and benches, and one stern English official, who sat with his back to the wall, not at all happy about these men who had invaded his sanctuary.
Sherwood and de Civili exchanged quick introductions, but the lieutenant knew all about Sherwood’s important mission for his king, and reported that unfortunately, no, there had been no suspicious-looking characters brought to his attention that entire day, nor the previous.
Sherwood slapped his gloves in his hand and paced the small space. Slowly, he became aware of the dockmaster’s cold eyes following his every step. He turned to the man.
“And you, sir, have you seen any suspicious men today?”
“That I have.” Sherwood felt his heart beat pick up. “Four of them are sitting in my office right now.”
The French soldiers exchanged a glance, then broke out in laughter and toasted one another. They liked to annoy him. But Sherwood tipped his head to the side and came a step closer.
“No men, then? How about a woman?”
The dockmaster’s gaze didn’t change. “A woman?”
“Reddish hair, pale skin, French. Escorted by a well-armed outlaw. Tall, bearded, Irish, although he can disguise himself as anything.”
“There’s people in and out of my port all the live-long day, my lord. Men and woman, some from France, some from—”
“Mind what I said about her hair. Reddish, lush…and her skin, so fine….”
The dockmaster sat back and crossed his arms over his substantial chest, then shook his head slowly. “Not seen anyone that fine in a long time.”
Sherwood pinched his lips together and turned away. He paced the room a few more times, circling the soldiers who were now pulling out a pair of dice. When the first man knelt on the ground and tossed them at the wall, he whirled to the door so abruptly his cape bloomed around his ankles.
“I am going to search the inns,” he announced, swinging the door open.
“Very good, sir,” replied the lieutenant, taking a swig of wine and picking up the dice. “Do you want that I should alert Prince John to your presence in the realm?”
“Why in God’s name would I want that?” he snapped. Sherwood’s goal was crystallized in his mind, sticky as honey: get the dagger and sell it to the highest bidder. The last thing he needed was the ridiculous but dangerous Prince John in his business before it had reached its culmination.
He slammed the door so hard behind him the walls of the hut shuddered. The soldiers and the dockmaster exchanged glances.
“You Englishmen,” observed one of the soldiers. “So irritable.”
“And short-tempered.”
The third nodded in grave agreement. “And loud.”
“And disloyal,” added the lieutenant quietly. The others picked up their cups and toasted the disloyalty of Englishmen.
The dockmaster sat, silent at his post, watching the circle of French interlopers get more and more drunk as the moon rose.
Chapter Forty
MAGDALENA PEERED ASKANCE at the doorway of the building Tadhg had stopped them in front of. The windows on the buildings on either side for half the block were entirely dark; no lights shone, no figures moved behind the shutters, no wash had been hung.
The street itself was empty of humans, despite being late day. Only a cat prowled, and nearer to hand, from inside one of the seemingly empty buildings, a very large-sounding dog barked.
Tadhg eyed the doorway, then stepped to it and said softly, “Fianna,”
This illuminated nothing for Maggie, nor, apparently, the inhabitants of the decrepit building, assuming there were any, for silence rode on its heels. A chill tickled up her spine.
He said it again, little louder. “Fianna,” he murmured, and rapped softly.
More nothing.
With a cold glare, he lifted his hand and hammered on the door with the side of his fist.
Magdalena gave a start at the bold, shocking sound.
From up and down the street came little scuffling sounds, like feet scurrying, perhaps dodging in and out of the piles of refuse that lined the alley, crates and broken pottery, piles of what might have once been clothes. The dog barked rabidly for a moment, then was abruptly silenced.
Tadhg banged on the doorway again, and shouted, “’Tis I.”
That could not be good, that he was an ‘I’ to whatever decrepit souls lived here.
He blew out an impatient breath. “Christ’s mercy,” he shouted, tipping his head back and peering up the height of the building. “Have you changed the password? ’Tis…fucking…I.”
“Och, well, if it’s fucking ye,” replied a deep voice from within. “Then I ought to simply shoot yer heart out and call it a deed well done.”
Maggie froze. Very carefully, shifting only her gaze, she peered at the windows above. Someone was leaning out of one. Long-haired, dark-eyed, with a crossbow aimed at their heads.
Tadhg scowled up at the figure. “Aye, but you have never done a good deed in all your days, Rowan, so why start now?”
“Perhaps I’m feeling virtuous,” called down the crossbowman.
Tadhg scoffed. The crossbowman scoffed back.
Maggie stared at the crossbow quarrel aimed at her head. Or Tadhg’s. It was difficult to tell. It hardly mattered.
Tadhg looked over, then threw an arm around her shoulder. “Stop frightening my Maggie, and let us in.”
“Your Maggie? She looks too fine for the likes of you.”
“Let us in.”
“Why?”
“I bear news.”
“News is everywhere, brother. We hardly need you for that. And upon a time, the things we did need you for,” a pause ensued. “Well, you did not perform, did you?”
“Let me in or I will piss all over your wall.”
The figure in the window snorted, then pulled back and the shutter slammed shut.
Silence ensued.
Tadhg looked down at her and smiled. “’Tis a rare, fine day, is it not? Sunny and not too cold. We’re fortunate.”
“Tadhg, who are these men?”
His gaze swept to the door as the grating, rusty sound of a lock being turned squealed through the streets. “Just do precisely as I say, and do not speak unless it is absolutely required. The less said the better.”
“Did he call you brother?”
“The less said the better,” he repeated softly, and the door creaked open.
A leather-clad, significantly-armed man stood in its opening. No, some sort of half-breed, half man, half god, tall and armed and flatly terrifying. He was at least three inches taller than Tadhg with long golden hair lashed back in a leather tie and eyes of blackened gold. He scowled so fiercely at Tadhg, Maggie’s jaw dropped.
“Jesus wept, the prodigal son is come,” he drawled, but nothing about him was lazy; he was all banked fury. His gaze slid to her, and what had been caged ferocity became lazy male regard. “My lady,” he said with a dark, frightening charm.
Tadhg punched him in the chest, but he grabbed Tadhg’s fist in his huge paw and held it. His gaze swept to the street. “Get in here before you bring all the king’s men down on us,” he ordered.
Apparently he did not know Tadhg was the king’s man.
Tadhg stepped back, allowing Magdalena to go first, but he did not let go of her arm as they passed the half-man, half-god, pausing only to scowl at him.
She stepped inside cautiously. It was one thing to steal veils and hoods in a desperate bid for survival, but this place, that man, carried a more sordid feel, a more permanent one. Something lodged in wickedness, something devoted to brigandry.
And he had called Tadhg brother.
TADHG SAID NOTHING as they went through the lower room, once the storefront for a poor-man’s moneylender, now devoid everything but a bare counter, a cold fireplace, and shuttered up windows.
He guided Maggie up a set of creaking stairs in the back, blond-haired Rowan menacing at his heels, to the upper rooms.
Rowan reached around them with a huge paw, rapped three times, then paused, then twice again, and a lock clicked again. The door swung open.
He heard Maggie give out a gasp of amazement.
He muffled a sigh and ushered her inside.
This room was the antithesis of the downstairs. Where it had been cold and barren, this was warm with fires and braziers burning, oils lamps hung on the walls and candles lit on every flat surface.
Where downstairs had been small and cramped, this upper storey ran the length of five buildings, the upper walls having been knocked down to connect the floors into a huge great hall. The long room, more than half a block in length, was separated at intervals by huge oak beams, but no doors.
Where downstairs had been simple, this was resplendent. Thick wool tapestries and richly painted walls made it feel like a rich manor home, and the long oak table running down the center of the room was covered with decorated pottery and jugs of drink.
Where the downstairs had been bare, this was replete. With treasure.
Silver goblets and plate decorated with gold filigree filled the shelves of towering wardrobes along the walls. Carved chairs sat around the table beside becushioned benches. Barrels sat on end, serving as storage containers overflowing with bolts of rich fabric and tunics with various lords’ devices on them. Such things came in handy when one needed to suddenly to claim allegiance to, say, the baron of Wessex or the earl Gloucester.
Dozens of thick, iron-banded chests sat on the floor, pushed up to the walls. And stuffed onto shelves and hung along the walls, were swords and knifes and iron-headed maces, steely sharp targes and crossbows and hunting bows. It was an entire armory beside the front door.
Tadhg had brought Maggie to the outlaw den that had spawned him, and he was almost consumed by the shame.
Silently he guided her to the long table, to a spot nearest the fire, then stilled as he become aware someone was sitting at the far end of the table, dark and silent and watchful.
Their eyes met across the length of the table.
Fifteen years of absence, hovering over a sea of unspoken hurt, pregnant with unexpressed fury, snapped between them. Tadhg held his breath.
“I told Rowan not to let you in,” Máel said, languid and cold.
So that’s how it was to be. Well, and what did he expect?
“Aye?” Tadhg replied, just as coldly. “Well, he did, which makes you as lacking in leadership as you were when I left.” He turned to Maggie and said gently, “Sit, lass,” his hand at her back.
She lowered herself on the bench and slid the veil off her head. In the firelit room, with her pale skin and dark hair, she almost seemed to glow.
Máel’s dark eyes tracked her movements. The urge to protect bit like teeth in Tadhg’s chest. He sent a silent warning glare down the table.
Intercepting it, Máel smiled bitterly. “Why are you here?”
“You have a guest. Feed her. Then we talk.”
Máel stared at him a second, then shoved the bench back and walked out.
Tadhg turned to Rowan, who almost snarled in response but, after a glance at Maggie, stomped to a back room and returned with tray of cheese and bread and a pewter cup. Maggie stared at the food a moment, then swallowed and tipped her head up to look at him, her eyes wide and frightened.
“I’ll return in a trice,” he promised, and strode to the back of the room, where Máel was already positioned. Rowan stalked after.
He kept his head up, his eyes expressionless, revealing nothing of the way his chest felt blasted open seeing these brothers he’d exiled from his heart so many years ago. You’d almost think they were still part of him, the way it hurt. But showing weakness would only make them circle like the wolves they were.
Unfortunately, Tadhg was practically comprised of weakness at the moment. He needed everything. He had nothing but dangerous contraband and a magnificent, vulnerable woman he would die for.
They could discover neither of those things.
But if something had to be revealed, if some sacrifice was required in the end, Tadhg knew which it would have to be.
“I NEED YOUR HELP.”
“Ha.” Rowan’s single, bitter laugh was like a punch. Tadhg knew it was coming; best to get it over with. “Help, is it?”
“Aye,” he said quietly. They stood in the far end of the room, around yet another table, in another miniature hall of illicit booty.
“Now you’re needing help?” Rowan scoffed, his lazy sensuality twisted into anger. “Rose so high you couldn’t even see the rest of us, and now look at you.” He flung out a hand out with a derisive look that took in Tadhg from head to toe. “Dirty as a hog, trailing a woman too fine for the likes of ye, without your precious king, broken in almost every way, on the run.”
Tadhg leaned his spine against the wall, then his head. He closed his eyes, resting where he stood.
“Outlawed, if I heard the tale a’right.”
“That should please you,” he said, eyes still closed. “I am returned to the fold, as it were. Back to being one of you.”
Máel had remained silent but for his opening words in the other room. Tadhg couldn’t see his reaction now, either, but he could feel it, rippling across the room on a river-current of anger.
“Och, but you could never be one of us, could you, Tadhg? You were always too good for that.”
Still pressed to the wall, Tadhg, opened his eyes and stared at ceiling, then turned just his head toward Máel. “I need to find the earl of Huntington.”
Máel’s face shifted and Rowan gave another burst of hard laughter. “The earl, is it? Well, last I looked, he wasn’t frequenting the sewers the likes of us do.”
Tadhg pulled his head off the wall and stared down at the floor. “I never said a ‘sewer,’” he insisted quietly.
Rowan leaned forward. “You might as well have. We were never good enough except to help you live. Drag you off a battlefield, out of the sea. But anything more? Day to day living, that was never—”
Tadhg pushed off the wall. “You call this living?” He gestured at the room and all its costly goods and hangings.
Rowan sat back, grinning. “Aye, that I do. ’Tis a fine life. We have money for every need and any passing whim. We’ve women, the finest clothes, the most excellent drink.”
“And we never. Go. Hungry,” added a cold voice.
Tadhg turned to Máel’s darkly handsome face. “I never go hungry either.”
“Aye, but we never abandoned our people to ensure it.”
“You abandoned honor. You’re a criminal,” he said through gritted teeth. “All this is stolen.”
“Not stolen.” Arrogance and complacency filled his outlaw brother’s voice. “Occasionally people were stolen, then returned home after their families sent a token of their appreciation for the fact that we found them, safe and sound. The rest came by dint of hard work.”
He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. Dark mai
l shimmered dully on his arms; Máel was always armed and ready for battle. “And you look mighty hungry right now, tiarna bó,” he added softly.
Cow Lord.
Tadhg felt the sawed whip of old, deep anger. That had been their name for him, upon a time, the only one of their small band of exiles who was not a rightful lord. He’d been nothing beside these once-great men. And now…now he served a king, and they were still bandits.
All they could have been, and there were still…this.
He shoved the anger down deep. It would not serve here.
Still, he shook from the force of holding himself in check, of not leaping up and smashing Máel’s stubborn head into the hard, expensively tapestried wall behind him.
“Where is Fáelán?” he said tightly. “Where is my brother?”
“I am here.”
He jerked his around to see Fáelán standing in the doorway.
Through the ages, Rardove chiefs had been marked by five things; intemperate recklessness, beautiful women, granite-hard determination, pale blue eyes, and inked tattoos across half their bodies: the other half was left as bare as God had been sent them into the world, a truce between the old gods and the new.
Tadhg was not marked; he was not of the Rardove derbfine, the four degrees of blood kinship that allowed a man to rise to the head of the family and become chief. Tadhg could never become The Rardove. He could never be great.
Fáelán was practically built for the role.
Powerful in body and mind, with long dark hair, pewter blue eyes, and a natural command, everything about him was meant to lead.
But there was no one to lead anymore. No princedom, no barony, no land, no chief, no people. The clan had been wiped out when the English arrived.
Truth, the Rardove clan been heading down the path of depravity and weakness for decades prior to their final fall, called to recklessness, hedonism, and drink more than greatness. So it was no surprise that it had come to this, not to Tadhg.
But Fáelán’s heart had been ripped out.