Rose of the Mists

by Parker, Laura

  As the warriors ran past, it suddenly dawned on Revelin that Robin was being hunted by the O’Neills. Was it some new game invented by the warriors to while away the hours? Revelin closed his eyes slowly and then reopened them, the light seeming brighter, his mind clearer. Whatever was happening, Robin was a fool to run. Flight was dangerous and useless.

  Revelin’s hand went automatically for the hilt of his sword, but it no longer hung from his belt. Even his scabbard was missing.

  Robin shrieked when the first warrior to catch up with him grabbed him by the collar. The cry ended abruptly as he pitched forward onto the ground.

  Without considering the foolhardiness of his action, Revelin ran toward them, the Butler battle cry erupting from his lungs as he charged with Ualter at his heels.

  Belatedly he realized that the warriors could, and might well have, killed him. Even Ualter was no match for a drawn blade wielded by a seasoned campaigner. Instead, the clansmen looked up in easy surprise. An unarmed man was a novelty they could not resist. They turned to face him, their sword tips resting quietly against the ground. As he neared them, Revelin slowed his pace and called Ualter back with a single command. He paused a few feet from the men.

  “Is he dead?” He indicated Robin.

  The men snickered, and the one nearest contemptuously poked Robin’s middle with his foot. “He’s nae dead, he’s swooned like a lassie in the arms of her first lover.”

  Revelin smiled in spite of himself. Poor Robin. “Then you’ll let him go? He’s hardly worthy of the hunt.”

  “That we’ll not,” came the prompt reply. “The English bastard murdered a man while trying to escape. We found him standing over the body back there.”

  Revelin glanced in the direction the man indicated. It was very near the place where he and Meghan had spent the better part of the night. “Because a man is dead, it doesn’t follow that he was murdered.”

  Two clansmen reached for Robin and lifted him to his feet by a grip on each arm. “’Tis not for us to say what happened. He’ll be answering to Turlough O’Neill.”

  Revelin let the matter drop and fell into step behind the men dragging Robin back to camp, satisfied that Robin had not been killed outright. If they sought Turlough’s opinion, it would be some time before the matter was settled.

  He had spent the predawn hours in Turlough’s tent steadily drinking and gaming. Never before had he met a man with Turlough’s stamina. The chieftain had consumed enough uisce beatha to kill most men, but it was not until he had finally succumbed to the effect of imbibing that much whiskey, a quarter of an hour ago, that Revelin had felt free to leave his host’s presence. Turlough would no doubt be dead to the world for hours to come.

  Revelin belched. His head spun dizzily and his stomach seemed unusually close to his throat. He reached out and patted Ualter’s massive head. He had missed the beast and feared him dead or lying wounded in the woods, but other, more pressing concerns had kept him from asking about his missing pet. Yet, when he had seen him tethered outside the old crone’s hut when he deposited Meghan there, he had laughed like a boy and thrown his arms about the great dog’s neck. He did not even mind that Ualter had chosen to guard Meghan over himself.

  Meghan. Just the sound of her name made his senses sharpen. He glanced down at the bright band of ribbon tied around his upper arm. Against the dark green velvet of his doublet the colors seemed especially fresh and cheerful. Meghan had snatched them from her hair and placed them about his arm just before he had left her. He had not known what to say, nor had she. They had parted without words. He was grateful for that. He needed time to determine what he should do next. But first this accusation against Robin must be handled.

  The morning was cool and misty. Against the encroaching dawn the dying bonfires were reduced to embers of orange and red. The revelers were asleep now, most of them snoring in peaceful slumber where they had dropped on the open ground from exhaustion. Only a few dogs raised their heads curiously as the clansmen and Revelin passed through the center of the camp. The O’Neills slept secure in their own land.

  Revelin was not surprised when the clansmen approached Turlough’s tent and one of them entered, but he was astonished when Turlough appeared a few moments later. He stood firmly supported on his tree-trunk legs, his black hair and beard in snarls about his grim face. “Where’s the English dog?”

  Robin, who had been dumped before the tent, raised his head as consciousness reclaimed him. Revelin tensed as Turlough stepped outside. The chieftain’s angry, red-rimmed eyes rested a long moment on the smaller man, then moved to Revelin. “Ah, Butler! They tell me yer English friend has killed one of me warriors. Ask him if ’tis true.”

  Revelin nodded and turned to Robin, who was struggling to his knees.

  Robin gripped Revelin’s arm with clawing fingers, gasping, “What’s wrong? What am I accused of?”

  “Gently, Robin,” he encouraged, slipping a hand under Robin’s arm to help him to his feet. “They think you killed a man. I prefer to think you’re too wise to commit such folly.”

  “As God’s my witness I did not!” Robin’s eyes rolled wildly as he glanced fearfully from one warrior to the next. His face lost all its color. “I swear to you, I did nothing! I only stumbled over the body! You must save me, Rev! I swear I know nothing of what occurred!”

  The grip on his arm was painfully tight, but Revelin calmly addressed the chieftain. “Sir Robin knows nothing of the death of your man.”

  A nerve began to tic beside Turlough’s right eye. Clearly, he was not pleased to have been awakened from his whiskey-laden dreams. “Me men say different. The Englishman is my prisoner…as…are…you,” he added with pointed jabs of his finger at Revelin’s middle. “He was trying to escape. For that he will die. Hang him!”

  Revelin stepped between Robin and the warriors who reached for him. “Would you kill a man whose guilt you have not proved?”

  Turlough’s black brows twitched. “Me men saw him bending over the body. When they approached, he ran. What more proof do I need?

  “How did the man die?”

  Turlough motioned a warrior to his side and they conversed in whispers. “He was strangled,” he pronounced when they finished.

  “With what?” Revelin pressed.

  Turlough’s blue eyes narrowed on Robin’s trembling frame, and his words came reluctantly: “Strangled by hand.”

  Revelin looked down at Robin’s smooth hands, which still gripped his sleeve, and nearly smiled. Robin was no more capable of pressing the life from another man’s body than Meghan was. When he glanced up at Turlough, he saw a look of understanding dawning on the chieftain’s face. “So, you see, my lord, we have yet to discover the murderer.”

  Displeased to have his judgment found in error, Turlough’s gaze moved deliberately to Revelin’s hands, which were strongly tendoned and long fingered. “A man’s been murdered. Strangulation is an assassin’s trick. There’s none here would stoop to it but the English. One of ye is a murderer.” His gaze was wintry as he met Revelin’s. “I charge ye with finding the guilty. Ye have until sunset. If ye fail, ye and all yer party will die.”

  Revelin waited until Turlough had reentered his tent before throwing a companionable arm about Robin’s shoulders and leading him some distance from the camp. Finally they came to an outcropping of rock and both men settled themselves to rest. Revelin smiled at Robin and winked. “’Twas an unsettling way of beginning a morning, hm?”

  Robin’s smile was a pale reflection of his usual impish grin. “I made a right fool of myself. Christ’s wounds! I thought I was lost.” He hung his head a little. “Perhaps it would have been better had I been.”

  Revelin slapped his back heartily. “’Tis early yet for pity. You may yet have a chance to die.”

  Robin’s head snapped up. “What?”

  Briefly, Revelin repeated Turlough’s demand. “So, we’ve a murderer to catch before nightfall.”

  Robin sighed deeply
. “I’m not guilty. I was afraid. God! ’Tis plagued me all my life. I cannot bear to be startled. ’Tis my heart. It gallops away, leaving darkness in its wake. I cannot control it!”

  “You are no coward,” Revelin said. “You came to my aid some days ago with the herdsmen and again when the O’Neills attacked. I stand by what I say.”

  But now that he had begun, Robin was determined to finish his confession. “I can control it most often now that I am grown, but there was a time when it took very little to…”

  He wet his lips, his boyish face ashen behind his freckles. “My father despises me for the weakness. One winter’s meal, when I was about twelve, I scalded him when a friend thought it a merry prank to jump out and surprise me while I held a tureen of gravy. Lord, but I can recall my father’s face when I came to. He ordered me to be dressed up as the girl he said I resembled and paraded in public for all in the village to see and ridicule.”

  He swallowed again, his voice less steady as he continued, “I was put in the stocks in the town square and left. Come morning I was without my maidenly trappings and without my innocence, after a fashion.”

  Robin looked Revelin in the eye, his smile full of self-mockery. “I had learned a lesson during the night, thanks to a pair of drunken farm hands. Regardless of my father’s opinion to the contrary, my affliction was not a manifestation of my sexual proclivities.”

  Revelin met his gaze evenly, knowing that it cost Robin more to speak than it cost him to accept the confession. “The dead clansman, did you recognize him?”

  Robin blinked, disconcerted by the question, for it had nothing to do with his revelation. Then his smile eased into more natural lines. “I knew him. He was one of the ones who kept watch over us during the celebration.”

  “I do not suppose you saw him leave or who was with him?”

  Robin’s grin deepened. “Truth to tell, Rev, I was murmuring shameful endearments into the ear of one of Ireland’s own sweet lassies.”

  “I thought you hobbled by language.”

  “’Tis so, but the scholar in me has discovered an alarming degree of literacy among these wild Irish. There’s something to be said for popery I had not counted. The girl knew Latin, Rev! ’Tis a fair enough language for love.”

  Revelin reflected a moment on his own evening and then thrust aside the thoughts. “How long did you and the girl keep each other occupied?”

  “Until first light.” Robin wrinkled up his nose. In spite of his mud-crusted clothes he was first and foremost a gentleman. “I did not mind sharing her tent with relatives, but I draw the line at hogs and dogs. I was in desperate need of fresh air. The body was hidden under the brush. I tripped over it before I knew what it was. When I knelt to uncover the thing, the O’Neills suddenly appeared.”

  Revelin snatched up a blade of grass and began nibbling it thoughtfully. Robin had not killed the clansman, of that he was certain. So, who might have? Any dispute between warriors was settled by challenge. There was no need for stealthy death when Brehan Law sanctioned legal combat. No, the man who had died had been killed for other reasons. “Where are Sir Richard and John?”

  Robin shook his head. “I’ve not seen them since supper.” His face brightened. “Do you suppose they killed the man while escaping?”

  That hope vanished before Revelin could answer. Coming toward them from the camp were Reade and Atholl, flanked by armed guards. When his surprise wore off, Revelin noticed that they again wore handcuffs and that the clansmen carried two extra pairs. He tensed. He could run and, perhaps, escape. But Robin would be left behind. And Meghan.

  Revelin stood as they neared and held out his wrists. They had until nightfall to discover the murderer, and he had a few questions to ask Reade.

  *

  “But why must I stay here?” Meghan questioned for the twentieth time that day.

  Sila merely dished up a bowl of milk with bread and butter and passed it to the girl. “Eat it. They’ll be coming to fetch ye soon enough.”

  Meghan accepted the bowl with an ungracious grunt. They, whoever “they” were, could not possibly come soon enough to please her. It was nearly dark, the day gone, while she had idled it away inside the close confines of Sila’s rath. Where could Revelin be, and what would keep him away the day long?

  Meghan gazed down into her bowl as she remembered Revelin’s face as she had last seen it, warmed by Sila’s fire. The wavering flames had danced shadows across his face, licking up like golden tongues in the spring green of his eyes. She could have looked into his eyes forever. They changed color with the watching, the new green becoming the sea green of waves, then the dark unguent waters of a lough at evensong. She had bared herself to that gaze, given her body completely to his charge, and he had taken her on a journey that had changed forever her perception of herself. She had felt beautiful, like the summer sea, rising and flowing, warm and wet in his arms. If not for Sila’s presence she would have slipped off her gown and offered herself again to the pleasure of his touch.

  “A lass who smiles on her supper thinks of more than her belly,” Sila said with a chuckle. “Aye, yer lad’s more golden than honey and sweeter too, I’ve nae doubt. Did he give ye taste of his honey?” She cackled obscenely and patted Meghan’s belly. “A son before Saint Brigid’s Eve!”

  Meghan’s face flooded with embarrassment. “I do not take yer meaning.”

  Sila chuckled. “Ye will, soon enough. Ye’d best eat yer fill, there’s work to be done before morning.”

  Meghan cocked her head to one side. “What work?”

  Sila lowered her eyes. “Ach, that’s for Turlough O’Neill to be saying. Only, I’ll warn ye to play no tricks. He’s nae a man for such. If ye’ve the power, ye’d best use it.”

  “I’ve nae power!” Meghan cried, spilling her supper as she jumped to her feet. “Ye’ve nae right to claim ’tis so!”

  Sila sipped her milk, undisturbed by the outburst. It had been her idea that Meghan should be able to name the identity of the strangler. The settlement was too interested by half in the lass. The death of the O’Neill’s bull convinced them that she had powers far greater than Sila’s.

  Sila glanced sideways at Meghan. It was a difficult enough task to work magic when the populous believed in one’s power. Now that the girl had come, they would turn to her unless she was discredited and soon.

  Sila raised her head, listened intently for a moment, and got to her feet. “They’ve come at last.” She thrust out her chin as she gazed down at Meghan. “Now we’ll see who has power!”

  The night was warmer than most but Meghan shivered as she approached the O’Neill’s tent. The King-Candle burned brightly near the entrance, and Turlough was already seated near it, his broad frame bare to the waist but for a thick furring of black hair.

  “Come, lass, sit beside me,” Turlough encouraged with a wave of his hand.

  Glancing right and left, Meghan moved forward reluctantly. Where was Revelin? Why was he absent?

  Turlough watched her, aware of the face she sought among the gathering. He knew he had not been wrong in thinking the girl was attached to Butler when they slipped away early the night before. When Sila came scratching at his tent at midday with the news of the lass’s night in the woods, he knew he had young Butler right where he wanted him. But how far would that attachment go in cementing relationships between his clan and that of the English-Irish Butlers? Time would tell soon enough. He had more than one surprise in store for his audience. Before the evening was out, they would learn that Turlough O’Neill was a man of unexpected knowledge and statesmanship.

  Turlough held out his hand to Meghan. “Give me your hand. Ach! Ye’re as soft and smooth as new-churned butter, lass. Will ye melt before a harsh truth, or are ye hardier than ye seem?”

  Meghan watched him in silent puzzlement. What did he expect of her? She felt anxiousness in the great hand clamped over hers, but she could not tell what it meant.

  Turlough smiled at her, a wolfis
h gleam in his eye. “Do ye remember, lass, that I told ye I could name yer parents, a thing ye say ye cannot?” Meghan nodded slowly. “Well, I will do that very thing this night, if ye will aid me in a small matter first.”

  A tightness crept into Meghan’s throat. Her parents! Did he really know who they were? Did she want to know? She hung her head. Where was Revelin? She needed him desperately.

  Satisfied with Meghan’s silence, Turlough signaled his men, and the four prisoners were shoved forward.

  Meghan could not still a gasp of outrage at Revelin’s manacled hands, and she turned on Turlough such a furious look that he was momentarily surprised into releasing her hand. “What is this?” she demanded in a tone unlike any she had ever used to another human being.

  Turlough smiled inwardly. She was an O’Neill, when she chose to be. Still, it would not do for her to be allowed to speak to him in such a manner. He rose, glowering down at her slight height. “I preferred yer silence, lass. Hold it or be gagged!”

  Meghan looked from Turlough to Revelin and saw him nod once. She bit her lip, unconsciously raising one hand to smooth back the loose tendrils of hair that the evening breeze had feathered forward onto her cheek. This was the first she had seen of Revelin since their night together, and it was not as she had imagined while whiling away the day.

  Turlough reseated himself and beckoned Revelin forward. “Tell me, young Butler. Have ye an answer for me?”

  Revelin shrugged, holding out his chained wrists. “You’ve left me precious little room to maneuver in, my lord.”

  “When have wits needed hands?” Turlough returned with a smirk.

  “Hands are the beasts of wits’ burdens,” Revelin replied as quickly. “There were things I might have done, questions I might have asked, things I might have seen, had I been able. As it is, I have had only my instincts and imagination to keep me company.”

  “And yer answer?” Turlough prompted, leaning forward in his chair.

  Revelin’s gaze did not falter, but neither did he hurry into speech. Something was amiss; he had caught the spirit but not the substance of the restless whisperings that had begun among his jailors just after mid-morning. The restlessness, like a withheld breath, pressed him now in the midst of the silent onlookers. If he did not tread warily, he might trip himself up. “My lord, you asked me to prove Robin Neville innocent of the crime of strangulation. He is his own best defense. He lacks not only the ability but the reason to commit so base a crime. As for the guilty party…” He paused to gaze significantly about the ring of faces. “I would no more point to you than to any present. I do not know the murderer by name or shape.”