by Tarah Scott
And then Cameron and several other nobles appeared to greet him, and Julian turned away in disgust. He didn’t have the temperament to deal with such matters. They were better left to Cameron’s skills.
Choosing to clear his thoughts and escape the political intrigue for a time, he headed out of the castle and into the cobblestoned streets of Edinburgh in search of a distraction.
14
retribution
Liselle stood in the center of her assigned chamber in Edinburgh Castle and bitterly turned in a slow circle. She was no true lady-in-waiting. The canopied bed, writing desk, and a carved wooden chest belonged to an assassin.
Again, she heard Julian’s words play through her mind, words that had whispered in her thoughts often of late. It was becoming painful to even think of him. Every time she did so, she could only hear: What cause could ye possibly have to harm an old man? Have ye no heart?
She had a heart. An aching heart. If only he knew how heavy her heart was.
And how much it hurt to hear him even jest about slitting his throat.
Moving to the window, she peered out. Her chamber was on the second floor, facing the chapel not far from the gates. In the distance she could see the rooftops of Edinburgh spreading out below her.
And then shaking the pall that had settled over her, she donned her finest green satin gown with a bodice gleaming with pearls, and taking up a small woven basket, left her chamber to run the Countess of Lennox’s errands.
The afternoon was quite warm, and she fanned her cheeks as she made her way to the market square. The countess had wished for several skeins of silken yarns along with several new quills and a pot of ink.
Liselle had just purchased them all and had stopped to tuck the packages safely in her basket when she heard several women’s voices coming from around the corner of a nearby shop.
“Aye, 'tis a sad day when ye cannae buy tallow candles nor salt for the table!" one said.
“Ach, and the goats have gone dry,” another one grumbled.
“Those goats of yers are ancient crones, Maggie!” The first one snorted. “Ye’d have more luck getting milk from a buck! Just butcher the auld things and have done!”
Shaking her head, Liselle moved forward when the second woman’s response made her pause.
“Did ye hear of the Venetian prince at the butcher’s near the city gates? ‘Tis a secret, ’tis!”
“Ach, Maggie!” the first woman chortled. “If ‘twas a secret, then why would ye know of it? Yer as gullible as a wee lassie!”
“I heard him myself!” Maggie’s voice took on a wounded tone. “I’ve a wee bit of skill with the herbs, I do. And the butcher fetched me to care for the man. Even his purse is made of velvet. And he spoke of the prince—”
“Aye, spoke of a prince,” the other woman interrupted with a scoff. “Yer such a dreamer, and those goats of yers are proof of it! They’ll never give ye milk, ye daft woman! They’re too auld!”
As they began to quibble about the goats, Liselle hesitated.
What Venetian was this?
Glancing at the sky, she knew she could spare time to investigate, and patting the stiletto in her sleeve, she hurried down the Cannongate towards the city gates.
The butcher’s place was easy to find; she could smell it from some distance away. The faded sign hung by a single nail, and a pig wallowed in the mud at the entrance. The water in the wooden trough was green and murky.
Pursing her lips in disgust, she craned her head around the side of the building to see the butcher himself passed out in a drunken stupor near a pig’s carcass. Several heaps of animal entrails and decomposing heads were tossed about the yard, giving off an overwhelming stench that made Liselle gag. Flies buzzed and crawled everywhere.
Covering her nose with one hand, she pushed the door open enough to peek through the crack.
The walls of the small room were blackened with smoke and grime. A hutch holding a collection of earthenware bowls along with several knives stood behind a trestle table, which was piled high with various animal parts. They were crawling with even more insects than could be found in the cloud of flies outside the door.
Sliding her bone-handled stiletto from its hidden pocket, she stepped inside.
The place was empty.
Frowning, she spied a curtain in the corner, and with a cautious step, pushed it aside to reveal a narrow flight of stairs. She eyed them suspiciously and almost turned away, when she heard the sound of singing coming from above.
She would have left, had she not recognized the gondolier tune, a Venetian barcarola.
Overcome with curiosity, she tiptoed up the creaking steps to hesitate at the top where three doors stood before her.
With a pounding heart, she opened the first one.
The room proved empty.
She had just moved towards the second door when the sound of a man’s hacking cough came from behind the third.
Gripping her stiletto tightly in her hand, she squinted through the cracks to see a man lying forlornly on a straw pallet.
Santo Ciélo! It was Dolfin. And he was clearly ill.
Masking her surprise, she slipped into the room, and kneeling by the old man’s side, placed a light hand upon his fevered forehead. Her brows knit with concern; his flesh was burning.
Dolfin’s eyes opened then, and his dry lips twitched into a smile. “Am I at death’s door?” he asked in a weakened voice. “I see an àngiolìna at my side.”
“An angel?” Liselle laughed a little taken aback. An angel of death, mayhap. Wrinkling her nose, she eyed the squalid room and shuddered before turning back to him. “Why do you stay in such a place?”
“Then have you been sent by Le Marin?” A look of confusion crossed his face.
Liselle drew back sharply. “You know … Le Marin?” she asked even as it suddenly fell into place. Of course! Julian had been aiding the old man all along!
“You must tell him of the prince, àngiolìna!” Dolfin whispered. Gripping her arm with a shaking hand, he repeated in a stronger voice, “The prince!”
Arrested by the earnestness in his face, Liselle gave his hand a comforting pat and leaned closer. “The Doge?” she asked curiously.
“The prince!” he said again, and then caught in some strange delirium, he began to sing again until a series of wracking coughs seized him. But when he was finally done and had caught his breath, he pointed a feeble finger to a leather pouch at the foot of his pallet. “I would never betray them. Inposìbile!”
Liselle turned her head speculatively to the side. “And whom might they be, bón pare?” she asked softly.
His eyes lost focus as his voice trembled in reply, “The Vindictam!”
She drew back in surprise.
“I would never betray La Serenìsima to Ferrara,” the old man continued. “I must send the word to the Vindictam. They should know the Saluzzi have betrayed them. The prince, the Electus, is in danger. Find him by his mark. I have drawn his mark, there—” He waved trembling fingers to the leather pouch at his feet.
Liselle’s brows rose even higher as comprehension dawned. He was speaking of the ruling elite of the Vindictam, matters so secret that not even Orazio would know of them!
Another bout of coughing seized his frail frame, and she could do nothing more to ease him other than to pat his back and murmur more comforting words. “Rest, bón pare. Take rest. Do not speak.” Indeed. For her to hear such things would only be a danger!
“Rest, sì, I can rest, àngiolìna,” Dolfin murmured. And then closing his eyes, he dropped into a feverish sleep.
Liselle stared down at the old man’s pale face in shock.
No wonder Orazio had been seeking him! With such knowledge the old salt spy would certainly be an enemy to the Vindictam. But did he truly know the identity of the Electus, the man who had been chosen to replace the Grand Master, the Dominus Granditer—the iron fist to rule over them all?
She shivered and eyed the leat
her pouch with trepidation. Whatever it held, she was safer not seeing it. Such knowledge was death.
The identity of the Dominus Granditer was a closely guarded secret, a necessity for his own survival.
Yes, she should destroy the pouch with its contents unseen. Dolfin would be killed on sight if he were found with such a thing.
But she picked up the pouch anyway and her fingers untied the loop and slipped inside. At first, she found nothing unusual. A comb, prayer beads, and an iron ring of lock picks.
There was nothing with a mark upon it.
She pursed her lips and lightly tossed the pouch away.
The man was most likely delirious.
But after a moment, she picked up the pouch again and ran her fingers along its velvet interior.
It was then that she felt the hidden seam, and in the next moment, she was looking at a strip of parchment with the single word Electus written above a symbol of a ‘V’.
She frowned, never having seen such a thing before.
And then Dolfin woke again, his shaking hand clawing her arm. “Water, àngiolìna? Do you have water?”
Liselle glanced about the room, but it was bare. Rising swiftly to her feet, she promised, “I will fetch some for you right quickly, bón pare. Hold tight.”
Hurrying down the steps, she twisted her lips, perplexed. She could only pity such a helpless old man. How could Orazio expect her to slay him?
* * *
Approaching the Mercat Cross, Julian squinted at the postings, reading the latest one declaring the reconciliation of James and his brother. He rolled his eyes in disgust. And as a clap of thunder echoed in the sky above his head, he squared his shoulders, thinking it was time to head back up the Royal Mile to the castle high on the hill above him.
But he’d only taken a step when the flash of Liselle’s green dress caught the corner of his eye. Stepping into an archway, he allowed his gaze to travel over her slender figure.
Even though he’d seen her jump out of a window, the wee vixen looked like a fragile doll, a creature of the court with her pouting, kissable lips. But she possessed a strength that he’d seen in few.
He was fair tempted to step forward and claim her lips once again, but then she set off at a brisk pace.
Intrigued, he followed her along a narrow twisted route through Edinburgh’s wynds, keeping to the shadows as she hurried down the Cannongate to finally pause in front of a decrepit butcher’s house. On the step, she glanced over her shoulder several times before cautiously stepping through the door and disappearing inside.
Peeking through a dirty window, he watched her slip behind a bedraggled curtain hanging in the back.
He glanced about and lifted his lip in disgust.
The air reeked of urine and filth. There was no sign of the butcher. Stepping inside, he took one look at the rickety staircase and knew he’d never be able to reach the top without announcing his presence to all.
But it was a simple enough matter to solve.
Returning outside, he quickly scaled the back wall and approached the windows from the roof. But it was only a slightly better solution. The ancient tiles cracked and shattered beneath his feet.
And then he heard Liselle’s distinct voice followed by a man’s hacking cough. And leaning over the edge of the roof, he peered through the top of the window to see her kneeling before a pitiable figure of a man lying on a straw pallet.
“And take another, bón pare,” Liselle was saying as she dipped a silver spoon into a wooden bowl of what appeared to be gruel.
The clatter of hooves sounded on the street below, and Julian drew back a little as a company of royal guards galloped by, escorting several men dressed in the livery of the House of York. They were clearly headed towards the castle.
By the time he peered through the window once again, Liselle had moved, blocking his view of the man as she leaned forward to lift his head and press a cup to his lips.
“’Tis barley water sweetened with honey,” she murmured encouragingly. “It will give you strength.”
Julian lifted a curious brow even as his eyes dipped over her seductive curves. His gaze strayed to the curve of her neck as she once more began to spoon gruel into the sick man’s mouth.
Aye, her neck called for a man’s kiss.
And then the man on the pallet lifted a feeble hand and said in a weak voice, “You have returned, àngiolìna!”
Julian’s eyes widened in alarm as he instantly recognized Dolfin’s voice. The man was supposed to have travelled to the Cambuskenneth Abbey! How was it that he’d ended up here?
“You must leave this place at once. You cannot stay, bón pare,” Liselle was saying. “It is too dangerous. You will be found.”
“My weary old bones cannot travel, cara,” Dolfin answered with a shaky laugh.
“Would you rather die a traitor’s death?” she asked with a firm shake of her head. “I will arrange for someone to take you from here. You must go with him, and you must leave this night!”
And then rising gracefully to her feet, she dipped a respectful curtsey and sailed through the doorway, heading back down the creaking steps.
Julian didn’t hesitate.
Dropping through the window, he landed lightly on his feet, and in a moment was kneeling at Dolfin’s side.
“How do you feel, Istruttore?” he asked without preamble, laying an uneasy hand upon the old man’s sweating brow. Had she poisoned him?
Dolfin was clearly surprised to see him, but he managed a weak, welcoming smile. On his thin, unshaven face, it looked almost ghoulish.
“You are well, caro!” he croaked.
“Aye! And why would I not be?” Julian asked grimly, frowning in concern. “How long have ye been ill? And why are ye here? Did I not tell ye to travel to Cambuskenneth? Why did ye come here?”
“So many questions,” Dolfin’s voice trembled as he struggled to prop himself up on an unsteady elbow. And then he knit his brows. “What did you ask?”
Julian eyed him in concern. The man was confused and frail, but he didn’t appear to be poisoned. “Dinna fash yourself over it,” Julian muttered under his breath. “I’ll see ye safe myself and right quickly.”
Dolfin reached out and patted his hand. “My strength is returning, thanks to yon àngiolìna. You just missed her, caro.”
Julian grunted. He could hardly tell the man that the lass was a Vindictam assassin.
“I must leave this place—” Dolfin began, before a fierce bout of coughing consumed him.
“Aye, of that there is no doubt,” Julian murmured with a stern brow. “Tarry a moment more, Istruttore. I will find help right quickly.”
It didn’t take him long, and soon enough, Julian found himself standing in the center of the road, waving a relieved farewell to Dolfin, who was safely tucked beneath a plaid in the back of a friar’s cart. The friar was a trusted friend and had vowed to see Dolfin safely to the monks of Cambuskenneth Abbey. Aye, the good brothers would see the old man properly tended to.
And only when Dolfin and the friar had rolled out of sight, did Julian turn back towards the castle, pondering the strange turn of events along the way.
Liselle’s deed was an odd one. She had no cause to aid a man her brother sought to kill. Unless it was part of some devious scheme he had yet to uncover.
* * *
Liselle hurried back to the castle, planning to find Julian at once to warn him of Dolfin’s dire circumstances and perhaps gain a measure of his trust along the way. The feeble old man filled her heart with pity. How could Orazio even think to kill him?
Frowning, she had just stepped out of a narrow close when a red roan reared before her, and she immediately fell back, her instinct unsheathing her stiletto in an instant.
“Do you recognize me?” a man’s voice asked harshly.
Startled, she glanced up into the face of the thick-browed Saluzzo from Fotheringhay, the man she had injured. Santo Ciélo! Why had the man accosted her? Was
it vengeance?
“Should I know your face?” Liselle asked haughtily, holding her head high even as she gripped her stiletto tighter.
The man threw back his head with a short bark of laughter. “You know well who I am, you foolish woman! You may think you’ve outwitted me and prevented this war, but you are sorely mistaken! I and my brother will see this truce broken and the Saluzzi honor restored! We shall free the Saluzzi from the spell you’ve cast over them!”
“War?” Liselle repeated, feigning ignorance as she stalled for time. Santo Ciélo! How had the man found her out?
The man rolled his eyes and glanced away in disgust before turning back to laugh, a hard, cruel laugh. “I’ll not let Antonio uphold this truce! I and my brother will prevail. We shall open Antonio’s eyes and make him see the treachery of the Vindictam at last!”
Liselle fell back a step. The name of Antonio Saluzzo was a fearsome one. Unlike the Vindictam who kept their ruling elite shrouded in secrecy, the Saluzzi made their leader known to all.
“You make little sense!” she whispered, feeling suddenly ill. She had rekindled a war! “I have done nothing—”
“My brother saw you in Fotheringhay,” the man replied, his squinty eyes narrowing into slits. “Antonio demands retribution for your attack, but my blade cries for your blood! Even now he wastes his time discussing with the Vindictam a fitting punishment for you. But there will be no justice for me until I see a river of your blood flowing down the street!”
“You are un demònio!” Liselle said through white lips. The man was clearly consumed by hatred, almost to the verge of madness.
“Mayhap I am!” The thick-browed man’s eyes glittered with contempt. “Know you that I’ll be watching your every move, and I only hope that you will fail, because then I will see what I truly want. Your blood upon my blade!”
Liselle’s head snapped back.
With that, the rogue Saluzzo wheeled his horse around and galloped away, but at the last moment suddenly leaned back to hurl a slim blade directly at her.