by Alex Dylan
He knew in his core that Melisande would have run to Sally. It would be an easy assassination. He hardened his heart with stony determination. Even if he had to fight his way into the Castle to slit her treacherous throat, then that’s what he would do. No man, no one, would stop him now.
He slowed at the sight of a fire burning at the start of the Scots road. He knew his horse needed to stop; he didn’t want to kill a faithful servant. He dismounted when he was still some distance away and moved toward them, both man and horse breathing heavily, walking stiffly. There were only the two guards. They were half asleep but they’d seen him. Heughan sighed unhappily to himself. Oh fuck no, he thought but the hairs were already standing on his back as he sucked both air and blood lust into his gut.
He slashed the first guard across the face and drove his sword into the belly of the second. The man fell towards him. He was heavy. Heughan staggered back and then let him fall, not the sword. He rolled him over, pulled out his sword, grabbed the skittish horse and let the mist enfold him. He had enough time before the alarm was raised.
Heughan tracked along the high curtain wall, looking for a likely breach. The part beyond Rickergate was in bad repair and he only needed a half-decent foothold. He dismounted, turned the horse away to find water and scrambled over the wall as easily as a bramble. The dark ginnels beyond the East Walls tore the shadows from his feet, twisting and turning through a warren of mean alleyways until he was outside the door to Sal’s, breathing steadily but silently.
The casements on the lower windows were secure against night crawlers. Heughan clambered up onto one of the outhouses, quick on his toes up the roof ridge to the attic shutters. He slipped his knife against the latch and snaked through the smallest opening possible, easing his way through the quiet house to find her. He could hear the sweet sound of her sleeping rhythm. He had listened to her before in the dark of night. Lying naked beside her, wet with her sex, he had brushed his lips across her parted mouth without waking her.
One arm was flung across her face. Her other hand was dropped over the side of the bed, and there lay her knife on crumpled clothing beside her on the floor. He froze because he doubted her slumber now. She was a smart killer, not a brute like him, why would she let her guard down like this? Was there someone else in the room, death crouching in the shadows by the door?
He stood up to look upon her one last time. Confusion coursed through him; kiss her, wake her, consume her, kill her. He raised an arm to strike but he heard footsteps passing the house. The City Watch on patrol. He listened hard; would they spot the opened shutters and rouse the house? He dared not look away in case she was not asleep and would rise and kill him with one swift, sweet blow. She slept on. He knew hesitating could be his end but this sensual, unusual woman captivated him. Their passion flashed through his brain. He hated her too, his fear wanted to kill her. He respected her like no man he knew. He wondered at her talents and her knowledge. He craved her body once more.
He crawled into the darkest corner of the room and cried all the tears from his body.
* * *
The recusant Brother Vincent found himself once more kneeling before the tall cleric. The man put a long hand out to him, inviting him to kiss it. Vincent turned his head away.
Mark A’Court made a fist and playfully nudged his elaborate ring into the side of Vincent’s face, “I’ve enjoyed a recent promotion. You can address me as Constable of the Realm, Brother Vincent,” he said happily.
“I told you before, that’s not who I am,” he said sullenly.
“Really?” said Mark A’Court in a voice high with sarcasm. “I have been told that here in the Borders men own to their names and that even the English own to their villains,” he smirked, thinking of Howard’s indignation.
Vincent smiled secretly, “But I’m not English, am I?”
“Nor neither a reiver and yet here you are, to all intents and purposes, one and the same,” Mark inveigled. “Do you have what I asked you for?”
Vincent hesitated imperceptibly before shaking his head. Mark spotted the deception and laughed scathingly.
“Come now, Brother, you’ll have to be a lot more convincing in your denials if you want me to believe you. What do you know of today’s attack on the Scotch Gate?”
Brother Vincent was confused by the question. “I know nothing.”
“It had all the hall-marks of one of your assassins. We found a rider-less horse turned loose outside the walls and two men dead.”
Vincent sucked his cheeks in. “I know nothing of poisonings.”
Mark A’Court was intrigued. "I mentioned no poison. What other evils have you loosed into the world, Brother?
Unabashed, Vincent said, “What makes you connect these deaths to me? They are more probably a family matter, the Armstrongs or the Johnstones. I am friend to neither.”
“I marvel that you even know the meaning of the word. I think we must be working from differing translations. In my book, friendship means loyalty and truthfulness. Your definition would seem to include public shunning and private treachery.”
“I can see the treachery of others clearly enough,” Vincent rumbled.
“And do they see it in you, I wonder?” said Mark. “How would your allies react if they knew you had betrayed one of your own?”
Vincent hung his head.
Mark laughed nastily. “Yet another friend lost? You should come with a warning, ‘Danger: Friendship with this man may cost you your life.’ Why won’t you give the spies and traitors up to me now, save us both a lot of inconvenient bother? You’ll betray them in the end. You always do.”
“Whatever you may think of me, I have proven myself a loyal servant over the years. That has to count for something.”
“Which master do you believe you are serving now? Truly, it matters little. The Hounds of God have been a long time baying for your blood. You can’t outrun them forever.”
“If you were going to hand me over to them, you would have done so already.”
“I never make empty threats. I thought Carlisle would have been enough to convince you of that. Believe me when I say that if I thought you were trying to cheat me, I would hunt you down and personally destroy anyone and anything that you hold dear.”
Mark crossed the floor to Vincent and snatched a handful of his hair by its roots, twisting the man’s face forcibly towards him. “Look what happened the last time you got on the wrong side of the Inquisition,” he said sneering with a mixture of repulsion and fascination at the deep scar on the ruined cheek, the burned flesh leprous white, like melted candlewax.
“Oh, that’s right,” he said, releasing his hold. “I forgot. You can’t see it. Where’s the book, Brother? The one Doctor Dee was pursuing. And the key to the treasures you are hiding. Where’s my gold?” he hissed.
Vincent was angry. “I can’t just pull it out of thin air, can I? Why is it that’s precisely what everyone believes?” he laughed humourlessly. “Faerie gold? Fool’s gold, that’s what it is.”
“Oh I think not,” Mark A’Court disagreed. He pulled a wooden roundel from his robes and held it before Vincent. "Whose was the novel idea to shape the gingerbread like gold coins, hmmm? Most amusing. I spoke with the man who carved them and asked him how he chose the designs. Do you know what he said? He said he copied them.
“It’s an interesting design for a gingerbread mould, don’t you think? But what I’d really like to know is where a lowly apprentice managed to get hold of Spanish doubloons. You know these parts, you know these people. Someone is keeping secrets, and it’s up to you to find them. Gold is what His Majesty needs the most; yours, Ralegh’s, anybody’s. And if I can’t give him gold, I still need that book.”
“And if I can’t deliver either?” questioned Vincent.
“Then you’d best find me a witch to burn,” smiled Mark. “That usually amuses him.”
Chapter 16: Imprisoned Endeavour
Carlisle City
In
the ten days since Heughan had last seen Melisande, he had been lost in a muddle of trouble and trapped within the city. Nervous of trouble from the Scots side, Mark A’Court sought assurances from the Scottish Wardens that they would keep his peace and their side of the border in check.
His troops remained to swell the standing garrison in Carlisle. Ross was ambiguous about the arrangement. On the one hand, he was happy to have the extra men to bolster his position. On the other, there were additional costs to meet for the victualling of the troops, the straw and feed for horses, and Mark A’Court had made it quite clear that Ross would be meeting expenses out his own funds. Ross seethed but was impotent to do anything other than acquiesce. He couldn’t quite shake the feeling that the soldiers were being left there to guard him too. Ross drank heavily, brooded darkly, churning up the past and recent history into a curdled madness. His prisoners felt the full effect of his escalating anger.
Heughan the Hawk needed to stay out of sight and out of mind. He’d even cropped his hair and shaved like a military man to lessen the risk of recognition. He stayed holed up at Sal’s, dodging anyone who looked remotely familiar and everyone who was a stranger.
At night he sat with Rodrigues in the gloom of his office, planning, arguing and discussing. There was a truce of sorts between the two men, who found themselves united in the common cause of freeing the remaining reivers. Heughan didn’t want to think what the future would hold beyond that. For now, it was enough to immerse himself in the planning of an escape.
As yet another night drew close, Eleanor brought candles, warmed wine and cold pigeon pie. She said nothing to either but calmed them both with her gentle presence and unflustered routines.
Heughan ate pie, drank wine and disagreed with Rodrigues yet again. He shook his head. “They’ll be expecting us, Roddy. We might be able to use the Armstrongs’ secrets but we’d still need someone on the inside.”
Rodrigues remained silent, thinking his own thoughts.
“You said once Melisande would help, but I’m not sure I can count on her any more than she would trust me after…after everything that’s happened.”
“Nonsense.” Rodrigues was brusque. “You just need to find the right apology.” He pushed the pomegranate paper to Heughan. “Show her this. Flatter her intellect and ask for her help.”
He smiled at Eleanor as she brought him wine, “Every man must have his helpmate,” she replied with a brief smile of her own.
Heughan was a spectator to their calm domesticity, such a contrast to the adventures he and Roddy shared together. He wondered if there was a love like that to anchor him and if it would be sufficient.
For her part, Melisande had stayed in bed, Mischief curled en-couchant at her feet, as is the way with cats, who have the sense to know when something is wrong. He watched her closely with hooded green eyes as he puddled the bedclothes, purring quietly, a small domesticated growling, not quite given full throat. Melisande was still hurting badly and it was in a tentative whisper that she had asked Sorcha to pick purple sage leaves to bring her some relief. Frustration at losing her book made her short-tempered, and when Sorcha had returned with wolfsbane instead, picked without the protection of gloves, Melisande had given her a drubbing, which reduced them both to tears.
Sorcha removed herself thereafter to the solar in the Keep, where she spent her time with Phillice, sulking and stabbing vehemently at Melisande’s new bodice, which she was embroidering with blackwork trellises. No doubt she wished it was Melisande herself who could feel the prick of her needles. Melisande had wanted to explain how dangerous wolfsbane could be, even a small amount of poison from a bruised leaf could seep through the skin and cause violent sickness, but she had stopped herself. The knowledge was inherently dangerous. Better that Sorcha should remain ignorant and think simply that her lady had a bad temper. It wasn’t a complete lie.
Finally, Melisande hauled herself out of bed and set to dressing without help. Sorcha was not indispensable, and she was perfectly capable of looking after herself. Besides which, she wasn’t keen for anyone’s company, apart from Mischief. She scratched his ears fondly.
Like the ladies, the day was temperamentally brittle. A cold wind snapped round Melisande’s ankles as she picked out clothes from the wooden chest, nipping like Phillice’s annoying fluffy dogs. Mark A’Court had made her a present of a pair of butterfly-eared yappy pests. Phillice fussed and cooed over them contentedly, delighted to give them all her displaced maternal affection. Melisande told herself that she should be pleased at the Constable’s astute gift. Somehow she just couldn’t shake the feeling that Mark’s benevolence was not merely serendipitous but hinted darkly at his own sources of intelligence. She felt he was assessing her, as though readying to play chess.
She dressed carefully to cover her bruises, choosing a modest pale blue shatnez gown offset with a lace collar. She had picked it out for its high neckline but it was also a small act of rebellion. Rodrigues and she had entered into one of their heated debates once as to whether it was appropriate for Christians to wear garments which were forbidden in the Bible. As with many of their liturgical discussions, it had quickly degenerated to argument and ended in an acrimonious stalemate. She had called him a hypocrite for citing rules he didn’t believe anyway. He had called her a heretic; to which she had tossed her head and replied that she didn’t care for his insults but if it gave her the licence to wear what she pleased, thank you kindly, and she would follow her own conscience and her own rules.
Events had moved quickly since the arrest of the reivers. The masons had been hurried to make repairs to the dilapidated West Tower. Ruth Nortbie had self-importantly accompanied her husband Jeffrie, when he had arrived promptly to make his assessments and recommendations. She had been very quick to shun the memory of Nick Storey, their late apprentice, commending Ross on having done his duty in disposing of ‘inbred thieves and villains’, as she put it. Her loud, nasal vituperations carried across the Outer Ward in spite of the noise of the garrison in full muster practising their swordplay.
Melisande wondered if Ruth realised that a few of the same ‘inbred’ were even still in Ross’s employ as members of the Watch; armed, dangerous and storing up her every slight and comment. True to reiver tradition, they would wait until the moment was right to take their revenge. Yes, there would be revenge, Melisande thought, and it would be disproportionate to the original insult; another Borders’ tradition.
A few of the boldest guards had made lewd cat-calls as the party passed them by. Melisande had been startled to see that their target was Lettice, meekly trailing about in a drab, unflattering costume as Ruth’s handmaid, her blonde hair shorn under a close-fitting linen cap. Their eyes had met for the briefest moment. Melisande thought she read frustration at a plan thwarted and the tenacity to manipulate a more satisfactory conclusion. She smiled cynically; that was in keeping with Lettice’s nature. She wished her the luck of it.
Ruth Nortbie caught them looking at one another.
“Yes, my lord,” she announced in the sycophantic tones that Melisande detested, “In my charity, I have rescued this woman from her sinful past and encouraged her to do penance that she may enjoy a more righteous future. Would that others of her sex might learn the humility to do likewise.”
Ross Middlemore had scowled disapprovingly at her even as he let his glance slip sideways to Melisande. He addressed himself solely to Jeffrie, “What concern of mine is the sinning of whores? Maybe your wife would be better suited to a nunnery, Master Nortbie; preferably a silent order?”
He dismissed Ruth and Lettice with a back-handed wave, swatting at them as though they were tiresome, noisy bluebottles.
Melisande had struggled so hard not to laugh that she had sunk into a full curtsey of courtly depth as Ross had passed and kept her chin tucked into her chest so he couldn’t see her insolent mirth. He gave her a turpentine look; suspicious bafflement uncomfortably mixed with smug conceit. She stayed modestly bowed as his d
iscussion with Jeffrie Nortbie of the half-moon battery with its gun placements floated backwards on the sharp breeze.
When she had finally lifted her head, Ruth and Lettice had been scooped up into the solar in the Keep by Phillice and her primping entourage. Melisande didn’t join them. They could gossip about her on their own over wine and fruit tartlets.
Confined to the limits of the Castle, Melisande was too shamed and too vain to display her bruises to the world, and especially not to Heughan. She had abandoned him at Sally’s, not wanting to brave another confrontation. He had to be content, since he had made no attempt to reconcile with her.
She hoped her journal was hiding in a corner, waiting for her. She shuffled her Tarot deck, seeking the guidance that would provide her with insight. Melisande turned the card.
The Hierophant. The Church, the establishment.
She frowned, not understanding. Instinctively, she thought of Mark A’Court but felt that he didn’t have her book. Who else could it mean? Perhaps the answer lay in the deeper meaning; the surrender of personal power. It wasn’t a good interpretation, whatever way she looked at it. What would she be asked to yield? She recollected the bargain she had struck with Ross. Every whore knows payment is always made in coin. One way or another, he would want to collect and she had nothing to give him. It wasn’t like her to be so reckless.
She sighed and chose again.
Eight of Swords. The melusine imprisoned in the ring of swords. Shake off the beliefs of others and set yourself free.
It was no good waiting for someone to rescue you. Use what you have, do what you must. One more card.
The Devil. Deceit which seeks control by enslaving.
Who was at the back of all of this, manipulating their destinies? The Devil controlled man and inflamed his passions. Could she trust Heughan’s temper? Rodrigues’s men called him El Diablo. Certainly, he had a devilish way of manipulating Heughan’s thinking.