English, Elizabeth (4 page)

"Sir—oh
please," Alyson burst out. "Can you tell me how my brother
fares?"

"Brother?
What brother?" he said absently, frowning a little as he studied the
cloudy sky.

"Robin.
He's only seven and so small for his age— please, can you tell me where Lord
Darnley is holding him?"

"Holding
him?" The knight turned to her, surprise widening his eyes. "Why
would he do that?" Then his gaze sharpened and he added, "He said
he'd offered you a reward."

"Oh,
aye," Alyson answered with a choked laugh. "My brother's life. I
thought you knew."

"Christ's
wounds," the knight swore softly. "No, I didn't know. But tell me
this—would you have agreed if not for your brother?"

"No."

"But
surely you understand John's position—and Maude's!"

"He
shouldn't have sworn if he didn't mean to do it," Alyson said stubbornly.
"It's all a wicked lie."

"But
it isn't—well, not exactly, anyway. This marriage was none of John's idea, you
know. Kirallen had him by the—the throat," he finished with a little
cough. "What else was John to do when Kirallen had young Haddon prisoner?
He could hardly let them slaughter his heir!"

Oh,
no, he couldn't let his son be hurt, Alyson thought with rising anger, but he
wouldn't hesitate to use the same trick on me! Apparently Lord Darnley's tender
feelings did not extend to a common boy like Robin.

"John
only said his daughter when he swore," Sir Robert hurried on. "I
heard him for myself. Strictly speaking, that does apply to you as well as
Maude. I thought it quite clever, actually..."

He
looked away, his face reddening slightly. "Well, it won't be
forever," he added heartily. "As soon as John's assembled his men you
can come back again."

"Aye,"
Alyson said quietly. "And then how many are to die because of what I've
done?"

"I
admit that part's—well, it's not very nice to think about, is it? But it isn't
as though they were... people. They're Kirallens! Surely you know about
them—they're a treacherous lot, bloodthirsty—totally without honor. They've killed
more of my kin than I care to think on, and others, too..." his words
trailed off as he stared ahead, memory darkening his eyes. Then he shook
himself and added briskly, "You'll be fine—so long as you remember what
I've taught you. Come along now, they're waiting."

Once
mounted, Alyson drew a deep, steadying breath and took up the reins. They were
blue velvet, as was the caparison of her steed, the same color as the cloak
flowing from her shoulders. She adjusted the gauzy veil over her face as they
moved slowly forward.

Sit
straight, she told herself. Don't talk unless you have to. She practiced
lifting her chin and looking down her nose, hoping her haughty expression would
discourage anyone from speaking to her. It seemed to frighten everyone when
Maude did it, from the meanest servant to Lord Darnley himself. Alyson prayed
it would work half as well for her.

Jemmy
reined up and stared at Ravenspur across the moor. It was just as he had
dreamed of it a thousand times over the past twelve years—stark, imposing,
threatening—and home. In his travels he had seen countless castles, every one
of them more graceful than this border fortress. But not one of them had ever
moved him as the sight of Ravenspur did now.

"Ugly
pile of stone, isn't it?" he said to Alistair, speaking past the sudden
tightness of his throat.

Alistair
didn't answer. His lashes dropped over his eyes, but not before Jemmy had seen
the flash of contempt lighting their silver depths. Just like old times, Jemmy
thought as he kicked his horse into a gallop and swept across the fields, over
the drawbridge, and through the gate. When he dismounted he drew a deep,
steadying breath and started for his father's chamber.

The
Laird was sitting by the window, the morning light pitilessly revealing the
harsh lines scoring his face. For years Jemmy and Ian had referred to the Laird
as "the old man," but now Jemmy was deeply shocked to find the giant
of his youth dwindled to a shrunken, sickly figure. Ian's death had done this,
Jemmy knew.

"Father,"
he said, taking an uncertain step forward.

The
Laird turned with a start, his eyes widening. He leaned forward in his seat and
peered closely at his son.

"Jemmy?"
he whispered.

"Aye,
Father, it's me."

"For
a moment I thought ye were—you've changed," he faltered.

"Twelve
years will do that."

He
held his father's gaze, feeling suddenly fifteen again, all knees and elbows
and boyish awkwardness. But it's different now, he told himself. I'm not a boy,
and he's asked me to come home.

"Well,
sit down. We have to talk."

Jemmy
obeyed, giving no sign of his disappointment. While he hadn't really expected
that his father would slaughter the fatted calf, a simple welcome might have
been nice.

"So
what's all this about a wedding?" he asked lightly, helping himself to the
wine his father hadn't offered.

"It's
Maude Darnley, as I'm sure ye know," Kirallen said.

"I've
heard."

Kirallen
glanced at his son and then away, as though the very sight of him was painful.
"Well?" he asked abruptly. "Will ye do it?"

"I
don't know," Jemmy answered honestly. "I have a life in Spain now, my
ship, and I've been doing rather well these past few years. I—"

The
old man cut him off with an impatient gesture, dismissing all Jemmy's
accomplishments, the years of back-breaking labor, the days spent beneath the
broiling sun, and the nights shivering on deck, all with a single movement of
his hand.

That's
when Jemmy knew he hadn't really changed at all, not in the way his father had
wanted him to. He hadn't magically transformed into Ian's image. It's a wonder
I never came to hate my brother, Jemmy thought. But of course it wasn't Ian's
fault he was so damned perfect.

Now
Jemmy slouched in his seat and stretched his legs before him in the way that
had always moved his father to fury. He could see the Laird tense and realized
they were slipping back into the old familiar pattern. It was so easy to annoy
his father, he remembered now. At least for him. As a child he could manage it
a hundred times a day without even trying.

He
straightened and sipped his wine.

"Come,
Father, what's the real plan? How will you get the best of Darnley over this
one?"

"I
want peace," Kirallen said with unmistakable sincerity. "Ye used to
say ye wanted it as well."

"And
you
used to say that you expected your sons to be men, not cowards, and
I was a disgrace to the Kirallen name."

He
spoke the words calmly enough, but his entire body clenched as he remembered
the bitter shame he'd felt when hearing them.

The
Laird moved restlessly in his seat. "Aye, well, perhaps I did say that.
But things have changed."

There
was to be no apology, then. No admission that the Laird might have possibly
been wrong.

"Just
tell me, Father: why me? Why didn't you make Alistair your heir and let him
marry Lady Maude?"

Do
you really want me back? he wanted to ask, but he couldn't bring himself to say
the words. Instead he kept his face expressionless, though his hands were
clenched so tightly around his goblet that his knuckles shone white as he
waited for his father's answer.

"You're
my only son—Darnley would never have agreed to less."

Jemmy
nodded. Poor old bastard, he thought, I'm all he has left. How galling it must
be for him! But in time he might come to feel differently. Perhaps it isn't too
much to hope that one day he might even be glad that I've come back.

"And
I think we can strike a bargain to your liking," Kirallen added
deliberately.

"Really?"
Jemmy raised one brow. "What might that be?"

"Three
hundred marks," Kirallen said. "For three months of your time."

"And
what happens at the end of the three months? Do I push Lady Maude down the
well?"

The
Laird frowned. "At the end of three months ye can return to Spain. By then
Alistair will be ready to take over Ian's responsibilities until Malcolm comes
of age. We shall provide Lady Maude with a home."

Jemmy
rested his elbows on his knees, bending his head as he considered the matter.
Of course his father didn't want him back, not permanently, not as his heir.
Had he really thought it could be so simple? Nothing Father ever did was
simple. There was always some twist to his plans.

So
it was to be Malcolm, Ian's son, who would rule here one day, with Alistair to
guard his place. Father didn't even trust Jemmy to do that much.

"And
am I expected to get Lady Maude with child?" he asked evenly.

"It
would be best if ye could. This is to be a real marriage, Jemmy, legal and
binding in every way."

"If
I succeed in my... duties... what's to happen to the child?"

Kirallen
shrugged. "It will be taken care of, as well."

"But
Malcolm is to be your heir?"

"That's
right."

Not
Jemmy or his child, either, would ever be considered as the future Laird. It
would be Ian's son. Of course. Jemmy sat back, tapping one finger against the
arm of his chair.

"Alistair
doesn't know about this, does he?"

"Not
yet."

"But
you think he will agree to keep this peace?"

"In
time, yes, once the marriage is made and there's no turning back, I am quite
certain he will agree. For now, though, I've told him nothing. Nor will
you."

Remembering
the fanatical light in Alistair's eyes when he spoke of Ian's death, Jemmy
wondered if his foster brother would ever give up his hope of vengeance. But
then he shrugged. What was it to him if Alistair agreed or not? That was his
father's problem, not his.

The
Laird was watching him closely, his eyes narrowed. How old he was, how frail!
His hands, once so strong and sure, were knotted with blue veins and trembling
as he raised his goblet to his mouth. Jemmy realized that finally, for the
first time, he had his father at his mercy. He could simply say no, get up, and
leave. God knew that's what he wanted to do. The whole plan was disgusting,
really, and he no more than a stallion set to service a noble mare. It would be
so very simple to walk away from it, go back to Spain, and take up the old
familiar task of forgetting he'd ever been born a Kirallen. And there would be
no peace with Darnley, not this time, perhaps not ever.

"Aye,"
he said. "I'll do it."

"You
will?" The Laird tried to hide his relief by frowning at his son.

"Why
not?" Jemmy said carelessly. "How terrible can it be? And I can
always use the money."

After
an hour's ride, Lord Darnley's party crested a hill
and found the
Kirallens waiting beneath their blue-green standard.

"The
Laird," Sir Robert said, nodding toward the white-haired man at their
head. Beside the nobleman, on a huge gray horse, sat another man. Alyson's
mouth went dry. "Is—is that him?" she whispered, and Robert nodded.
"It must be. He does look rather like a pirate, doesn't he?"

Alyson
studied Jemmy Kirallen from beneath her veil, but it was difficult to tell much
at this distance. She had a confused impression of dark hair and swarthy skin
before he turned back to speak to one of his men.

***

"Jemmy,"
Alistair said urgently. "Stop this now—good
God, man, ye canna mean to
actually go through with it!"

Jemmy
glanced at Lord Darnley, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. Stronger
than any amount of reason was the instinctive response roused by the sight of
that hateful blue-gold standard. Darnley. The enemy. He
should
die-he
deserved a hundred deaths in payment for the suffering he'd caused.

"My
pledge is given," he answered Alistair through tight lips.

"Ye
fool!" Alistair cried. "We can take them here and now—give the order,
damn ye!"

"No!
This is my decision, Alistair, not yours. Keep out of it."

"Christ's
blood," Alistair burst out, waving one hand wildly toward the Laird.
"You're as daft as he is! Oh, ye want to make the peace, is that it? Ye
want us all to live like brothers? What are ye thinkin'?" he cried, his
eyes snapping with anger.

"There's
been enough bloodshed," Jemmy answered in a furious whisper. "My
father is not mad to try to end it."

"This
won't end it," Alistair said decisively. "Do ye honestly think
Darnley wants this peace? He was forced to it, but he's a canny bastard. If
there's a way to break his word, he'll find it."

"He
already tried," Jemmy said, remembering the men who met him at the dock.
"And failed. I don't see how—"