not know the other thoughts that rushed around inside her head and had her rigid with panic.
‘And we will be together, Maddy?’
The voice was shaky and years of her own fears allowed Madeleine to easily see fright in others.
‘We will always be together, Jemmie, I promise. But now you must sleep, for it will be a long march on the morrow.’
She watched as the blankets shifted and then stilled before turning her eyes to the light beneath the door and sitting up. If they came, she would be ready, and the knife in her hand was honed sharp.
The Laird of Ullyot came to her room just as the pinkness of dawn blushed the eastern sky, his surprise at finding her awake masked quickly.
‘I would speak with you, Lady Randwick, and without your page. My men will take him.’
Jemmie stood uncertainly, movements clumsy with sleep, and Maddy felt her stomach lurch in fright. ‘Where will you take him?’ She tried to temper her desperation.
‘To the room next door. We will return him to you later.’
Her eyes went to the two guards. How dependable did they look? She was thankful to notice one was an old man with kindness stamped in his eyes.
‘I will be safe, Jemmie. Go with the men.’
‘But I think—’
Maddy shook her head as Jemmie began to speak, but the gesture did not seem to sway any intent as a bony chin went up and thinly covered shoulders straightened. ‘Will you give me your word, Laird Ullyot, that you will not hurt her?’
A young, uncertain demand given without weapon or strength. Holding her breath, Madeleine waited for reaction.
‘Get out.’
Not a knife through the ribs then, or a fist against the thin bones of Jemmie’s face. Reciting a prayer of thankfulness in her mind, she watched as her sister was taken from the chamber. As the door shut behind the group, Ullyot began to speak.
‘You have one who would vouch for your character, it seems, Lady Randwick, though many would say you are a whore and a liar known throughout two kingdoms for your loose ways and dark magic.’
She made herself smile. ‘I have been incarcerated at Heathwater for the past ten years, my Lord.’
‘Hardly incarcerated, my Lady, for your exploits at the Castle are chronicled well by those who have enjoyed your favours.’
Unexpectedly, she felt herself blush bright red. Angry at doing so, she stood and walked to the window.
Why was he here? And alone?
‘How many retainers does your brother keep at Heathwater?’
Her relief was visible. He was here to find out about Noel’s fighting capabilities?
‘A thousand,’ she lied, knowing the number to be almost twice that.
‘A thousand without the retainers of Harrington?’
She knew the question was not lightly asked and looked away. ‘My brother has not the numbers your domain yields, sir, though there is a certain safety implicit in depending on others.’
‘How so?’ His eyes were instantly alert, the mark on his cheek below puckered badly in the harsh dawn light.
‘The Ashblane soldiers are weighty in number. Too weighty, I have heard it whispered. Royalty likes to have strong men on the edges of their land as a first defence against invasion, but, when they become too powerful, any king is apt to worry.’
He laughed, the sound threaded with such ill-hidden arrogance it could only denote a man truly at ease with his own capabilities. ‘If you want to help your brother, I would advise you not to lie.’
‘Because my betrayal would yield him a quick death as opposed to a slow one?’ She thought of Goult trapped in the middle of a battle, but he ignored her question and posed one of his own.
‘Your page, Jemmie. How important is he to you?’
For a second Madeleine thought she might faint. Indeed, she grasped at the sill beneath the window and closed her eyes, every single thing she had ever heard about the Laird of Ullyot suddenly true. He had neither soul nor heart nor honour. And he was clever. She could barely believe the turn this conversation had taken. Had he guessed?
Desperately she faced him. ‘If lives are to be traded, Laird Ullyot, I would prefer to barter my own.’
‘Would you indeed, Lady Randwick? And I wonder why that might be the case?’
She dared not speak again. What was it he wanted of her? Everybody wanted something.
‘Now, how many? What are the numbers?’
‘Three thousand.’ She did not look up as she recited the re-tainers and their strengths, careful not to leave out the Western allies. She was truthful with the demands of number. With her sister’s life at stake and a Laird renowned for his lack of leniency, Goult would just have to take his chances.
‘Thank you.’ The words were as bleak as his eyes as she watched him. Slate grey. The colour of a lake before rain. Pale. Unreadable. Distant. For a moment she felt disorientated and exposed.
‘The safety of my clan is paramount to me, Lady Randwick, and I will do anything to protect it. Anything. Remember that and ye may yet live to be reunited with your beloved Heathwater.’
She nodded because he expected it and watched him leave.
Heathwater…beloved?
If she could burn the castle down herself she would, and if Noel was caught in the flames with Liam Williamson then all the better for it. The ghosts of ten years of hatred floated dangerously near and she closed her eyes against the screams of her murdered husband as the tightness in her chest caught her. Groping for the chair, she sat down. Not here. Not now. Not again. First she must get Jemmie to safety. And after that…
She would pray that the black Baron of Ullyot would scourge Heathwater from the earth on which it stood, leaving nothing for her ever to remember it by. And no one.
Alexander strode to the chapel. The candles burning in the vestry lit his passage as he crossed to where Ian lay. Lifting the plaid blanket away, he ran a finger in the sign of the cross over a cold forehead and pinched the salt in a dish on Ian’s stomach to the four corners of the room. ‘A charaid. May the Devil be far from your soul and your journey into Heaven sweet.’ With care he rearranged the rondel dagger tucked into the sleeve of his dead friend’s jacket, pleased to see that someone had thought to clean the blade and sharpen it. ‘I swear ye will be avenged,’ he whispered into the dawn. ‘I swear it on the soul of the Virgin Mary and the blood of our Lord.’
Our Lord?
How long was it since he had prayed? Crécy? Alexandria? Cairo? He looked up at the vaulted ceilings and across to the portraits in gold of the Holy Family that hung against the far wall. Adam Armstrong was a devout man and his chapel reflected this. A small likeness
