Rose of the Mists (25 page)

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 wolfish 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.”

Turlough did not move so much as an eyelid, but behind his blue stare his cunning mind raced. So Butler could not be frightened into betraying one of his party to save his own skin. That was admirable, as far as it went. It did not follow that Butler did not know who was guilty.

His mouth turned down slightly as he looked at the slight, freckled man with red-gold curls. Once he had seen the Englishman up close he knew him to be innocent. As for the other two… Turlough’s inscrutable gaze roamed contemptuously over the sober form of Richard Atholl. From what he had heard from his guards, this man mouthed oaths and prayers with nauseating regularity. No heart there for brutal murder. Finally he settled with concentrated intent upon John Reade.

Here was a soldier. Reade’s square face with its heavy features bore the stamp of a man capable of any and all crimes. It was a face of virtue in war and vice in peace. Turlough had
seen that look too often not to recognize it. Aye, Reade was his man. But how to smoke the fox from the brush?

Turlough chuckled and reached out to take Meghan by the hand. He pulled her about to face him and with his free hand lifted her chin. “Ye’ve the power. I’ve seen proof of it in the mark laid so boldly upon ye and in the death of me bull. Do not fear that I would harm ye. I’ve a healthy respect for the workings of the fairies and the otherworld. But I tell ye now ye’re an O’Neill, lass, and yer allegiance is to yer chief. If ye’ve traffic with the fairies, make them give ye the name of the murderer so that yer lad can go free.” He leaned closer until his breath fanned hotly across Meghan’s face. “Sila tells me ye’ve the sight. I’ve given me promise, the murderer shall be named this night or all the prisoners must die.”

The pronouncement struck Meghan dumb. How could he expect her to look into a face and read guilt or innocence? And murder? She had been told nothing of a murder. “I—I know nothing of murder, my lord,” she murmured so softly that none but Turlough heard her.

He patted her cheek. “Ach! Then yer answer will truly have come from the fairies.” Gripping her by the shoulders, he turned her to face the four prisoners. He held her still with his heavy hands. “Look at each of them, lass. Look good and long. One of them is a murderer. Ye’ll be reading it in his face. Tell me which, and the others will go free.”

Meghan shook her head wildly. “I—I cannot! Do not make me! There’s no magic in me! ’Tis an accident the bull died. I swear it!”

Turlough shook her by the shoulders. “Dinna fret, lass. Ye’re troubling young Butler, and we cannot have that, can we?”

Meghan stilled, seeking Revelin through the blur of her tears. He had advanced toward her but his way was blocked by a warrior. She saw in his eyes fear for her and an odd bewilderment.
He’s remembering,
she thought.

Revelin was remembering. What had come to his mind were
Meghan’s strange babblings the day her aunt died. She had blamed herself, saying that she knew about the death of some poor herdsman and that his companions had blamed her for it. Surely she had not been foolish enough to spread that tale here, not when even a single glance at her face was enough to repel all the most practical of minds?

“My lord, she’s but a lass,” Revelin began. “You cannot hold her responsible for childish daydreams.”

Turlough did not respond. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of Meghan’s shoulder as he leaned forward to whisper in her ear, “Ye’ve the sight, lass. I know! ’Twas not yer nurse’s name Una?” She jumped under his hands, and his grip eased. “Aye. Ye’re the one. Read their faces, all, and save young Butler’s life.”

Meghan closed her eyes. She would try, if it would save Revelin’s life.

She waited, becoming so still that she could feel the tremor of each heartbeat within her chest. She waited for the trembling, the shadow that always flooded her before the revelation of the dream that was not a dream. Nothing.

“Open yer eyes. Study them,” Turlough encouraged, his lips on a level with her shoulder.

Meghan slowly opened her eyes. This time she did not look at Revelin. She knew he was innocent. She saw Robin shiver as her deep blue stare encompassed him. He was afraid but innocent. The conviction came easily to her mind, without a heralding of foreshadowing. She took a deep breath and moved her gaze.

The tall, white-faced man held up the cross that he wore about his neck as she focused on him, and she heard him murmur a prayer. Amusement struggled in her, a senseless amusement caused in part by terror that she might at any moment be plunged into a vision and in part by a certain knowledge that it would not happen. She felt nothing as she looked at him, neither guilt nor innocence. Nothing.

It was hard to move to the final man. She did not like him. She feared him. Looking into his black eyes was like gazing at danger. His smile was a beguiler’s smile. His strong face might be thought handsome by some, but to her his black beard and thick head of hair too closely resembled a predator’s pelt. His well-fed smile repelled her. She knew that, given the chance, he would eat her alive. Meghan looked away.
Guilty.

The thought flashed clearly and calmly in her mind. It was not a vision, it was a simple reading of the truth, and she wondered whether Turlough already knew the answer. Of course, he did. She was being tested; he would have to know the answer in order to know whether she had succeeded.

“Well?”

Meghan closed her eyes. “I do not know. I cannot tell.”

“Turlough’s hands left her. That was not the answer he expected. He had felt the tension rise in her when she gazed at the one called Reade. Turlough himself had surmised the black-haired man’s guilt, though not the reason for it. She knew it, too. So why did she plead ignorance when Butler’s life hung in the balance? He smiled slowly. Perhaps she did not believe he would carry out his threat.

Turlough gripped the gold hilt and freed the skean from his belt. He had carried it with him constantly since Colin had pulled it from Butler’s saddlebags. “If ye cannot name the murderer, mayhaps I can aid ye. I’ll remove a choice for ye. ’Twill make it easier.”

Megan did not understand Turlough’s intent. She did not understand even as he moved past her toward the four chained men. It was only when she saw the long thin blade catch the King-Candle’s flame with its edge that she knew what he meant to do. Even then she was slow to react. He had stopped before Robin and grabbed the man by the hair, his blade lifted to plunge into the arched throat, when the power of motion came rushing back into her.

“Not him! Not him!” She flew at the O’Neill chief, her
hand outstretched to catch the powerful arm on its downward stroke.

She leaped upon him, grasping his fist in one hand and the bare blade in her other, and wrenched the skean to deflect its blow. She felt no pain as the metal bit smoothly into the flesh of her palm. She was falling, tumbling into a black abyss without pain and without bottom.

Chapter Ten