He looked at her consideringly. “You would make such a vow?”
“Aye, and readily.”
Nearby, Bostwick boomed, “What keeps ye there in conversation, Kieran, lad? Ye have many a day to speak to yer lady prisoners. The ale has been brought. Come to the fire!”
Kieran was obliged to shout above the din in answer. “A moment, Bostwick!”
“What’s amiss?” Jean-Marc’s blond head suddenly appeared, at about the same height as his master’s shoulder. The younger man held a tankard of ale, which he offered to Dina, but the maid silently shook her head and turned away.
“Naught,” Kieran replied to him, holding Glenys’s gaze. “Go and tell Bostwick that our prisoners wish to retire now, and that we will take them to the chamber that has been readied for them if he’ll but lead the way.”
Glenys released an unsteady breath. “I am grateful, Master FitzAllen.”
He smiled and gave a shake of his head. “Wait until you see the chamber that has been prepared for you before saying such as that, Mistress Glenys,” he advised. “If I know Bostwick, he has cleared away the small room that his whores use to be private with whoever pays for their skills. ’Tis like to be such a place that you may pray to be here beside the smoking hearth, instead.”
“It could not be worse than this,” Glenys said, then grew hot with embarrassment to think that she had spoken the same words earlier.
Kieran laughed as Bostwick arrived at his side to escort them to the chamber.
“We will pray it is so, mistress. Come.” Kieran set a hand beneath her elbow. “Let us see for ourselves.”
Chapter Five
It was far better than Kieran ever would have expected. He’d never realized that Bostwick had such a clean, fine chamber hidden away. It was on the other side of the main tavern, so that the noise of the place could yet be heard, but otherwise it seemed as distant as the moon.
’Twas a small room, Kieran granted as he walked the course of it, but swept clean of all filth and made ready for their arrival with pallets, a table, two chairs and three candles, which Bostwick promptly lit. The small hearth, which was set near the chamber’s equally small window, glowed warmly, chasing away the dark night’s chill.
“’Twill never dry ye as well as the larger fire in the tavern,” Bostwick told the two shivering women, waving a hand at the hearth, “but there are blankets there on the beds, and ye may undress yourselves and be warmed as ye please.” He ignored Dina’s moan of utter dismay. “Set yer clothes by the fire and they’ll be a bit drier by morn, mayhap. ’Twould be best if ye’d let us set them by the larger fire.”
Kieran looked to see what Mistress Glenys’s opinion of this would be, and wasn’t disappointed.
Her face, white with exhaustion, cold and hunger, brightened with two spots of anger. She lifted her strong chin and said, in a tone worthy of a queen, “We would far rather throw ourselves into the fire, sir, than give our only clothing into the hands of such disreputable villains, most especially in this unsavory establishment. Your establishment, Master Bostwick, which ’tis clear suits you full well but suits us not at all.” She spit out the last three words so precisely that there could be no misunderstanding of her complete disapproval of both Bostwick and his tavern. “Aside from that truth, Master Bostwick, our garments would reek of smoke come morn, and would be unbearable to wear in the presence of honest folk. I have no doubt that you and your kind welcome it readily enough, smelling very much the like at all times.” She finished this speech by gifting him with a look of utter disdain.
Kieran had to smother a laugh at his comrade’s astonished expression. God’s teeth, what a tongue-lashing! Poor old Bostwick had doubtless never heard the like.
“God’s blessed feet,” Bostwick murmured, staring at Glenys with awe, as if she were, in truth, a queen. “Ye have brought real ladies to me, Kie, my lad. True and proper ladies. We’ve never seen their kind in my humble tavern, and that I vow before God. Well.” He set a massive hand to his chin and rubbed thoughtfully. “Ye must be content then, m’lady, to wear damp clothes come the morn, if that is how ye’ll have it.”
“It is,” was Mistress Glenys’s frosty reply.
This only impressed Bostwick the more. He flushed and made an awkward half bow. “We’ll leave ye in peace, then, m’lady. I’ll have one of the girls bring food and drink to ye here. ’Twill be the best we have, and of that ye may be certain.” He seemed eager now to somehow gain her good opinion. “And none of the rogues within—save Kie and Jean-Marc—will enter this chamber without yer leave. I’ll have no one molest such fine ladies in my humble tavern, by God. Ye may rest easy about that, m’lady.”
Having given these promises, Bostwick bowed his way out of the room, bumping into the wall before finding the open door.
“Now see how you’ve frightened poor Bostwick, Mistress Glenys,” Kieran mockingly chided. “For shame.”
She was clearly of no like mind to make jest, for she replied, sighing, “Please leave, Master FitzAllen, and take your manservant with you. We are most weary, and you will be eager to be in company with your friends.”
Kieran nodded, knowing that she spoke the truth. She and the maid were worn to the bone.
“You’ll be safe, just as Bostwick promised. I’ll let no man enter here during the night—save us. You and Mistress Dina may rest easily.”
Her brow furrowed. “There will be no need for you to enter,” she said, releasing Dina, who moved to the nearest pallet to collapse upon it with a low groan. Jean-Marc unlaced his cloak and moved to set it over the shivering girl. Dina shook her head and pushed it back to him, clearly not willing to accept such kindness from one of their captors. “I have given you my vow that we will not attempt to escape this night.”
Kieran gave his attention to inspecting one of the two chairs in the room, placing a hand upon the back of it and determining how sound it was.
“We must sleep, as well, mistress,” he said. “You would not deny us the comfort of these pallets, which have been made ready for us.”
With exact timing and skill, he slowly lifted his gaze just as he spoke the last word, making his expression perfect. He’d practiced for many years how best to melt the hearts of women. Mistress Glenys might prove to be one of the most difficult subjects he’d had, but surely even she couldn’t withstand this particular blue-eyed onslaught. He spoke in his most pleading tone, with a certain look—half innocent, half naughty—that had slain the most determined females in both England and France. Even his mother, a woman as formidable as his high-born prisoner, hadn’t been able to withstand it.
But Mistress Glenys Seymour did.
Much to Kieran’s consternation, she wrinkled her nose at him as if he were purely distasteful and said, “I see no reason why you cannot share the tavern with your friends, either in pleasure or in slumber. Surely they will give way within some hours, and either faint from too much drink or be driven off for lack of money to gamble with.” Her gray eyes narrowed. “And I doubt that the women to be had here will allow you to depart their company so easily, most especially for mere sleep. You and your manservant will be far too busy this night to return to this simple chamber, Kieran FitzAllen. There will be naught to offer here save dull slumber.”
For the first time in many a year, Kieran knew a much hated sensation in the presence of a female. It went beyond anger or aggravation or mere defeat. He felt…ugly. Unattractive. Unwanted. Such emotions weren’t foreign to him. Far from it. From his birth he’d known how truly undesirable he was, the lone bastard amongst a gaggle of lawfully recognized siblings, fully set apart, despite the love they bore him. Even in his name he was branded as being different from them—FitzAllen, rather than Allen, and cursed ever to remain so. It was beyond his power to change or control what he was. But with women…by God, if he’d never been able to control anything else in his life, he’d at least been able to control women.
“You’ve a clever tongue, Mistress Glenys,
” he said almost before he knew his mouth was open, so angry that he hardly knew what he was saying. “But you use it far too much. ’Tis hardly to be wondered that you’re yet a maiden. I have little doubt that you’ll remain so.”
They were the cruelest words he could have ever spoken to such a woman. Crueler by far than any dagger might be; he might almost have killed her less painfully. The moment the words were gone he regretted them wholly.
Kieran held his gaze on Mistress Glenys, whose eyes had grown wide and whose face paled once more, but from the edges of his vision he saw Jean-Marc turn from his ministrations to Mistress Dina to stare at him.
“My lord,” Jean-Marc said in a voice that made Kieran cringe, one that too clearly told of the younger man’s open distress. Jean-Marc was a gutter-born orphan who’d been raised by the most evil, murderous thieves who existed on God’s earth; he didn’t have feelings save in those rare moments when Kieran up-ended his hard-won faith and entirely made a mess of things.
As he had just done by making so open an attack on a vulnerable woman within their care. No matter that the woman was a quarrelsome wench with a tongue as sharp as a finely honed blade.
“Forgive me,” Kieran muttered, not able to look at her. “I should not have spoken in such a…” He cursed under his breath, knowing there was no fitting apology he could make. He stalked toward the door, saying only, “Good eve,” and quit the room.
Jean-Marc was fast on his heels, grabbing Kieran by the arm and swinging him about before he could reach the stairs that led back to the tavern. “By the rood! What was that about?” he demanded.
“Naught,” Kieran replied testily, pulling his arm free. “She goaded me. You heard what she said.”
“I heard what you said,” Jean-Marc retorted.
“What of it? She goaded me, just as I said.”
“Women don’t goad you,” Jean-Marc told him. “Never. You’re beyond being bothered by the lot of them, except for your mother and sisters. But one day in company with Mistress Glenys Seymour and you’ve come all undone. I don’t like it. Nay.” He shook his blond head. “I don’t like a moment of it.”
Kieran ran a hand through his hair, fully exasperated. “Neither do I,” he said. “God save me from quick-witted females.” He shook his head and turned for the stairs. “I want a drink.”
With a sigh, Jean-Marc followed. “I need one,” he murmured in agreement.
In the chamber they had left, Dina watched her mistress with troubled eyes.
“He did not mean what he said, mistress,” she said softly. “’Tis clear he’s not used to being turned aside from dallying.”
“Nay, I have no doubt of that,” Glenys agreed, swallowing down the pain his words had given her. It was foolish to be hurt. She knew full well how unattractive she was. And she didn’t care what Kieran FitzAllen thought of her, anywise. He was a rogue and a knave and a scoundrel. No one of true worth would care for what such a man either said or thought.
Dina’s shivering brought Glenys back to the situation at hand, and she began to unlace her own wet cloak.
“Hurry and undress yourself,” she told the maid. “This door has no latch to it, but I’ll stand guard until you’ve wrapped yourself in one of the blankets.” With a quick movement, she tossed her cloak over the back of one chair, then went to close the chamber’s heavy wooden door.
Dina obediently stood and began to unlace her own cloak, which she set over the back of the other chair.
“This small fire will never have them dry come morn,” she said dismally, tugging at her surcoat with frozen fingers. “Master Bostwick spoke the truth of that. Ah, God above, I cannot get this off.” She groaned aloud as she strove to pull one arm out of the surcoat’s long sleeve. “’Tis too wet and heavy.”
“Come here, then, and let me give you aid,” Glenys instructed. “We must hurry before the promised food and drink are brought. I vow I’ll not partake of sustenance until we’re both dry and halfway warmed.” She tugged at Dina’s surcoat until the maid was able to slip her arms free. The heavy, wet garment slid to the floor, leaving Dina clothed only in her chemise, leggings and shoes.
“God’s mercy, ’tis so cold!” she cried, shivering and hugging her arms about herself. “How will we ever get warm?”
Glenys pushed her toward one of the pallets. “Take everything off, quickly, and wrap yourself in a blanket. We’ll dry your things first and then, once you’ve dressed again, you’ll stand guard whilst I care for my own things.”
“But how will we get them dry, mistress?” Dina inquired, hurriedly removing her remaining garments and tossing them aside in order to wrap herself in the warmth of the blanket.
“I believe this will work,” Glenys murmured, untying the small leather pouch at her girdle. “I’ve seen my uncle use this powder for a like purpose before, though now I wish I had watched him more closely. I’m most uncertain about how much to use, or if ’twill do more harm than good, but we must try it. Bring everything to me here and spread it out. Quickly, Dina!
“Just a small sprinkling, I think,” she said a few moments later as she dug into the now opened bag, pinching up a small amount of the fine, glittering grains. Drawing in a calming breath, she held her hand out over the garments and shoes that lay before her and carefully released the powder bit by bit, lightly dusting them all. They grains fell, sparkling, as if alive—though Glenys knew full well it was only an illusion—and once fallen, sent out a tiny puff of purple smoke that briefly filled the air. Coughing, Glenys waved it away and then bent to touch Dina’s surcoat. She felt all about the heavy green cloth to make certain that she was correct, at last lifting her head and smiling at her waiting maid.
“’Tis dry!”
Dina was beside her in a moment, feeling for herself. “Why, it is!” She set a hand to her chemise, then to her shoes. “They’re all dry! It worked! May God and your uncle be praised. I always knew his sorcery was powerful, but this is more than I’d ever believed.”
“’Tis no sorcery, Dina,” Glenys told her. “’Tis alchemy, a beneficial blending of natural elements. There is no magic in it.”
“So you say, mistress,” Dina said, gathering up her belongings in order to dress once more, “but you are the only one who thinks so.”
Glenys didn’t bother arguing. She was too cold and wet to care at the moment whether the entire world believed in such foolishness as magic.
“By the Blessed Virgin,” she murmured with relief ten minutes later as she donned her own dried clothing. “I will never again chide Uncle Aonghus for spending so much time in his working chamber.”
A knock fell on the door, announcing the arrival of the food and drink Master Bostwick had promised. It was simple fare, but warm and well prepared, and Glenys thought that she had never tasted anything so wonderful in all her life. There was warm bread sprinkled with caraway, a thin but welcome soup of vegetables and a few bits of beef, several slices of good, sharp cheese, and, most surprising of all, especially in such a crude tavern as Bostwick’s, two small, thoroughly delicious almond cakes. The wine that accompanied the meal was, admittedly, far too sour to drink, but the girl who’d brought the goods had also delivered ale and, though they weren’t used to drinking anything so common, Glenys and Dina found it flavorsome and quite refreshing. Indeed, by the time they’d finished two tankards each, they were well pleased and in a much merrier frame of being.
So much merrier, in fact, that by the time they decided to find their pallets and seek their rest, they were no longer bothered by the din emanating from the main tavern, and so well pleased that Glenys forgot entirely that the glowing stone and queen chess piece were yet in the pocket within her cloak—which she had left, now dry, hanging over the back of a chair. Having fallen deeply asleep almost as soon as she lay down, Glenys didn’t even stir when Kieran, sometime just after midnight, slipped silently into the room.
Her captor grew still almost at once and stared at the amazing sight of something glo
wing brightly within the folds of Glenys’s cloak. “Heaven’s holy mercy,” he whispered. “I’ve drunk more than I thought.”
He closed his eyes and shook his head, but it did no good. When he opened his eyes, the cloak was yet glowing—softly, but glowing all the same.
“What a-God’s name…?” He moved toward it slowly, then, reaching it, touched the garment with care. “’Tis dry!” He patted the cloth in disbelief. “But that’s impossible!” And yet it was so.
Casting a brief glance to where Glenys lay sleeping, one arm draped over her face, Kieran tossed the cloak over one arm and began to search the pockets. It didn’t take long; he was an excellent thief and knew how to rifle through pockets without detection, swiftly and silently. Within seconds he’d discovered the two pockets within the cloak and pulled out the contents.
“Holy Mother,” he whispered, staring at what lay in the palm of his hand. The cloak dropped to the floor untended. The small stone that had earlier been stolen from Mistress Glenys by Coll of Chester—that small, insignificant, ordinary little rock—was glowing as brightly as the moon. So brightly that it filled the entire room with light. Yet as it lay in his palm it felt just as cool as before, glowing without heat.
Sorcery.
It had to be sorcery.
Sir Anton had told him the rumors about the Seymour family were false, and Glenys herself had said much the same, but this surely must be part of their magic. Gingerly, he touched the delicate chess figure that lay beside the stone, wondering what kind of evil it possessed. Mayhap the wooden lady spoke, or meted out good fortune or bad. God’s teeth, just thinking of it made him shiver.
“Knave!”
A hand flashed out and snatched both the stone and wooden figure away, and the next moment Kieran found himself being struck upon his shoulder with a fist. It didn’t hurt him, but clearly pained Glenys, for she hopped about for a moment, holding her hand to her mouth. This only infuriated her the more.
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