Jesu—not now! Lose my wits and I could slay them both, the girl and her lover.
Barely holding the madness at bay, he burst into the clearing. Near the fire, the senseless knight tossed restlessly, cheeks flushed, sweat glistening on his brow. Clearly, fever had set into the wound, all healing efforts notwithstanding.
And there, a slim white figure etched against the darkness, stood the girl—flown from dreamless slumber to full alertness in a heartbeat. She poised like a wild doe on the edge of flight, pale skirts gripped in her fists, gilded curls tumbled wildly past her hips. In the frame of her delicate features, her enormous leaf-green eyes were riveted to his.
I should have shackled her, like any suspect witch. But she seemed so innocent. Careless of me...
“Easy, now,” Beltran rumbled, as though calming a skittish horse. Better for her if she didn’t try to flee. Perhaps she could yet prove innocent. “There’s nothing to fear.”
A faint scornful smile curved her lips. “Do not thou fear my sister Morrigan?”
“I fear no creature that walks God’s earth.” That much was certainly true. He’d slain his demons years ago, except the one who lived inside him.
“Then thank thy Creator thou hast never met my sister.” A pulse fluttered in the girl’s throat above her travel-crushed finery. Absently her hand stole to her waist. A cry spilled from her lips.
“My pouch!” Her eyes blazed with emerald fire. “Thou hast stolen it!”
“Merely laid away for safekeeping.” Spirited then, as witches tended to be. Despite her archaic speech and all that sweet beauty, she would prove no different than the others. He swallowed an unexpected tinge of disappointment.
“Thou art a thief, to trifle with items that do not concern thee,” the girl said stubbornly. When her skirts brushed the fallen knight, she glanced down at him. With swift concern, her brows drew together. “Lord Ansgar is feverish. I fear I did not fully draw the poison. He requires proper tending, in a proper bed.”
“If he’s one of the Fair Folk,” Beltran said, to test her reaction, “he can’t die.”
Fingers knotted in her splendid skirts. Pain flickered across her elfin features; her glow dimmed, as though a shadow slid across the moon. “He is mortal. Believe me, he can die. Or if not die, he will fall into dreaming and waken nevermore.”
“There’s an abbot with some claim to healing where we’re headed.” Beltran divided his attention between the dark trees that clustered around them and the girl, still poised for flight. He harbored no doubt that, if not for her wounded comrade, she would already have bolted. If she managed to elude him, Beltran would hunt her down and drag her back to camp in chains.
Far better for her if she hadn’t named the Fae and their demon Queene. His duty bound him now to track her to Hell itself, if it meant one less witch to plague Catholic Mary’s troubled realm. Never mind that the Archbishop awaited him in London, and Beltran was already late.
“You intend we venture forth together?” Apprehension and relief mingled in her face, she cast him a guarded glance.
“Briefly. I’ve pressing business in London.”
She hesitated. “An abbey...is it a Christian church?”
“It is.” He watched for her reaction.
Alarm widened her leaf-green gaze. “Then we cannot go there. In his condition, Lord Ansgar would not survive it.”
Heaving a breath, Beltran thrust his sword over his shoulder into the scabbard, the certain movement honed by decades of repetition. Now for the usual interrogation, to circle back on the girl’s own words and tangle her in her lies. Though he’d little time or taste for it tonight.
“If he isn’t Fae—”
“He’s bespelled.” Impatience sharpened her words. She knelt gracefully in a pink carpet of early primrose, a cloud of sweetness rising around her. “Mortal, but subject to all a Faerie’s weakness. For he has dwelled too long among the Fair Folk.”
“Among your folk?” he pressed, attention divided between the shadowy perimeter of their camp and the gentle hand—light as a butterfly’s foot—that touched the fallen knight. Somehow, he didn’t like to see her touching him.
Carefully she adjusted the bandage, paying no heed to his likes and dislikes. “This fever will require my basket of healing simples. Praise the Lady I brought it. He must have hot water, fresh linen, and willow-bark tea to draw out pain and fever.”
The girl glanced up expectantly, as though Beltran would spring to obey her like a kitchen-boy. Hoisting his brows, he planted his feet in the soil and folded his arms. She stifled a sigh.
Supple as a willow herself, she flowed to her feet and stepped lightly toward their piled possessions. When she discovered the rawhide tether around her ankle, she halted abruptly. A woman heavier on her feet would have fallen, but she scrambled deftly and managed to stay upright—a mark of the Devil’s favor.
“Why...?” She traced the cord knotted around her slim ankle to the tree where he’d bound her. Her brows rushed together, eyes incandescent with anger. “By what right, sir, do thou bind me, as mortals bind their poor wretched beasts? Dost thou fear I shall stray?”
Lo, how the color rose into her fair skin now! Being thwarted had flown her into a fine temper, a spoiled child rather than the haughty princess she claimed to be. Any less poised and she would have stamped her booted foot in its fine-tooled cream leather. Unexpectedly, Beltran’s lips twitched.
Briskly he strode to her bulging panniers, hoisted them into his arms and dropped them at her feet. “Find your healing tea. The restraint is a trifle. When we sleep, as I shortly must, I’ll tie it to my belt.”
“Thou...thou...” Clearly, she couldn’t quite bring herself to say knave. “By what right am I held?”
“I’m detaining you for interrogation,” he said coldly, hardening himself against her outrage as he would to her tears. He’d a lifetime of experience dealing with women’s wiles. “My right derives from the Holy Catholic Church and the Lord himself.”
She stared, her face softened by pity. “Poor fellow. Thou art deluded.”
Despite his years of experience, this annoyed him. “I’m a Blade of God, madam, sworn to root out vile sorcery. By your own words, you name yourself one of the Fair Folk who steals innocent babes from cradles and dances in witches’ circles by moonlight. Do you wish now to recant?”
For the first time, doubt flickered in her face. He could see her working it out, recalling what she’d told him, wary eyes moving from the flaming cross at his throat to the Seal of Justice on his hand. She didn’t rush to justify or explain, nor deny the charges, which he found interesting. Instead she hesitated, nibbling at the pale pink flesh of her lower lip.
As the firelight played over her still figure, Beltran was distracted anew by her beauty—high slanting cheekbones, those slim brows winging upward from tilted eyes, a cat’s pointed chin. She was slight and delicate as a sparrow beneath the soiled opulence of her gown, one sleeve coming away from frayed laces at her shoulder, any trace of a lady’s hood long gone.
And, God’s fury, that splendid curtain of silver curls tumbling free around her. He could well believe the Devil had crafted her beauty, despite the deceptive air of innocence that lingered about her.
“I’m not a witch, as thou would name it,” the girl said at last, her sweet voice laced through with certainty, like the chime of a si
lver bell. “I am Rhiannon, as I told thee. Forsooth, I can prove it. Merely fetch the letter of safe-conduct from my belt-pouch—the pouch thou hast taken.” Pointedly, she paused. “I bear Queene Maeve’s own writ to negotiate with Mary Tudor the terms of a lasting peace between thy folk and mine.”
Ah, now we come to it. Again, inexplicably, a twinge of disappointment stabbed through him. She entangled herself deeper in guilt with every word, this girl. Rhiannon.
The Devil had led her well astray with these delusions. Perhaps she even possessed some such letter, either the Devil’s mark or some charlatan’s forgery, which he would examine in due course. From written evidence of witchery, if such existed, even recanting would not save her.
“A princess of the Fair Folk,” he repeated, giving her this last chance.
“I am,” she said proudly. So heedless of her peril.
“Shall I call you ‘Your Highness’?”
A hint of discomfort flitted across her face, and her lashes lowered. “'My lady’ will suffice. I’m hardly a proper princess with my blood, though my mother insists upon the title.”
Casually, he found a small cauldron and rigged a spit over the flame. “And who is this fine fellow? Your prince?”
“I told thee. He is mortal.” Which was no answer at all. The girl—Rhiannon—knelt to sort through her possessions. Carelessly she tossed aside a swath of opulent fabric in pale green sarcenet, a court gown. She paused to caress the silver curve of a lap-harp, tucked among the fabric. That, she laid aside gently.
As he sliced twigs from a branch with a few capable strokes, Beltran kept a watchful eye trained on her.
“He is Lord Ansgar Emrys.” Again, that hint of hidden things stirred behind her eyes. “In the ancient tongue, they call him the divine spear—or lance.”
She crossed toward the water-bucket, steps gossamer-light on the uneven ground, only to be pulled short by her tether. Annoyance sharpened her tone. “I command thee, unbind me! I must have freedom to tend my comrade.”
“In a moment.” The lie rolled from his tongue without effort. The Cardinal had taught him God’s holy work justified any tool—dishonesty, coercion, threats, even torture. That was another reason they called him God’s Vengeance.
He followed her toward the bucket. “Tell me your purpose in this wood.”
“I told thee, I’m bound for London, to negotiate a treaty of perpetual peace.”
“So much faith in a treaty? Most aren’t worth the parchment they’re written on.”
“Ah, but this is an enchanted treaty.” Her elfin features lit with conviction. “The Faerie Queene has already signed. Once the Tudor Queen does likewise, the spell is triggered for both parties. My people are protected from mortal violence, and Morrigan’s faction is bound to the Summer Lands for a thousand years, but only if the treaty is signed before the Convergence. If not, the spell is nullified.”
In the midst of setting water to boil, the girl fell silent. Still as a woodland creature, she searched the black forest that crowded close. Skin prickling, he listened, stretched all his senses for another evil whisper. Above the soft crackle of flames and the knight’s feverish mumbling rose the distant cry of a hunting owl.
“The Convergence? What’s that, madam?” Truly, the Devil had gilded her tongue. Rarely had he heard lies so elaborate. Perhaps she truly believed them. If so, Bishop Bonner would burn them out of her.
As if she sensed the fire’s purifying heat, sensed the danger that threatened, she shook her head stubbornly, curls swinging around her winsome face. “These are matters for the Tudor Queen. Tell me, sir, who art thou?”
Again, Beltran found himself fighting an inappropriate urge to smile. Quick-witted and brave, this girl, that much he’d grant her.
“Lord Beltran Nemesto.” He swept back his cloak from one shoulder and bowed shortly. Might as well use the title the Holy Roman Emperor had encumbered him with. “Sworn Blade of God. We’re a sort of Templar, a monastic order of fighting men in Spain, trained from early youth to serve as Church enforcers.”
“Thou art far from home,” she said lightly. “I have studied the geography of the mortal realm. What is thy purpose in England?”
“I’m dispatched by His Holiness the Pope, at the invitation of Bishop Bonner and the Archbishop of Canterbury, to advance the Inquisition here.” He paused. “Were you aware that, under the authority of Their Graces King Philip and Queen Mary, the good bishop has burned more than two hundred heretics?”
He said it deliberately, to provoke a response, and saw the girl whiten—as well she should. Had she encountered Bloody Bonner or any of his henchmen in these woods, she’d already be on her way to the dungeons beneath St. Paul’s Cathedral, for an appointment with the rack or the witch-pricker.
She might well end up there, if she but knew it.
Now at last she feared him, though she took pains to hide it. Beltran wondered why the knowledge gave him no satisfaction. A frightened prisoner was a compliant one, in most cases. An effective strategy, notwithstanding his secret distaste for terrorizing these misguided souls.
“Now do you see, you foolish girl,” he said softly, “why it’s unwise to wander this land babbling wild tales about Faeries and enchantment? I can never release you now.”
If possible, she grew paler, and stumbled back to the limit of her tether. “W-what does that mean?”
“My duty’s clear. I intend to bring you before the Church for interrogation.”
Chapter Three
Her formidable captor was asleep at last.
Swallowing a sigh before the tiny sound escaped, Rhiannon laid aside the lap-harp she’d been strumming. She was all but useless at enchantment, but she’d always been neat-handed. She could spin a restful melody easy as thread from a wheel; the man’s exhaustion had done the rest.
A spear’s length away, Lord Beltran Nemesto sat propped against a slanting beech, black hood fallen over his eyes. Dim firelight flickered over his square jaw, dusted with golden stubble, and the corded sinew of his sun-bronzed throat. A hard man, even in sleep, but the ruthless set of his mouth had relaxed. He slept with broadsword across his knees, one gauntleted hand resting on the hilt. His powerful chest rose and fell with the rhythm of slumber.
Heart thudding painfully, she slid one hand beneath the fur covering Ansgar’s still form. Her foster-father slept easier since her tending, but Rhiannon knew she could never leave him behind to this Blade of God’s uncertain mercy. They must escape this stern Catholic. She dared not chance being locked up—not now, with the Convergence looming.
Nor did she care to suffer torture in the name of Spanish King Philip and his Inquisition.
When her fingers brushed the cool silver hilt of Ansgar’s dagger, still strapped to his belt, her eyes fluttered closed in relief. Stealthily, she eased the blade from its sheath.
Steel-hard fingers closed around her wrist. Rhiannon barely stifled a scream. Ansgar’s gray eyes were open, the cold light of battle sparking in their depths.
As her gaze locked with his, recognition flashed through his face and he drew breath to speak.
Imploring, she raised a finger to her lips and inclined her head toward Beltran Nemesto’s still form. He followed her gaze. A muscle ticked in the knight’s temple as he grasped their situation.
Easing the dagger free, she sawed gently at the rawhide cord that bound her to her captor.
Barely daring to breathe,
she whispered, “The horses...”
Her foster-father jerked a nod of comprehension and struggled upright. Though the pain made him whiten, he managed it. Her dainty Astolat was already straining toward them, testing the strength of her tether, ears swiveled forward as she sensed Rhiannon’s wordless call. Beside her, Ansgar’s coal-black stallion was alert yet quiet. But Lord Beltran’s white charger stamped a restless hoof.
For a heartbeat, the Blade of God’s deep breathing hitched. Rhiannon’s heart nearly stopped.
When the slow rhythm of his breath resumed, she wasted no time. While Ansgar crept across the clearing to untie their horses—moving haltingly, but at least moving—she flung aside the severed cord and crept catlike to her captor’s saddlebags. Distasteful though she found pilfering another’s belongings, she could not leave without the enchanted treaty.
Bent over his possessions, she cast a careful glance around the glade. Half-hidden in shadows, her foster-father was working one-handed to tighten Astolat’s girth, wounded arm bound to his chest. Against the tree, Lord Beltran was still slumped, hood pulled low over his eyes. By the faint flicker of the dying fire, she glimpsed that shadowy form imposed over his—a giant in silver mail, fair hair streaming around his face, great wings folded around his sleeping body.
Cold with dread and the deep chill of night, she sorted through a bundle of rich garments to find doublets, shirts, hose, all enveloped in the rich sweetness of frankincense. A wrapped crucifix and gilded Bible that made her eyes burn, a portable reliquary where a traveler might pray. The man seemed to carry an entire chapel in his saddlebags—
“Are you searching for your heretical documents?” His voice rolled across the clearing like a lion’s growl. “You won’t find them there.”
Rhiannon froze, stomach knotting, heart sinking like a stone. Fearful of seeing that fiery Being fully roused and wrathful, she dared not even look toward her captor, still reclining beneath his tree.
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