Angus stood motionless for a moment, then slowly raised his hand, palm up.
Margaret tugged on the fingertips of her glove and slipped her hand out, tossing the empty kidskin onto the table.
His eyes went wide. He’d been with her long enough to grasp the strangeness of this action. She didn’t care. This was one thing she must understand with certainty.
She held her hand over his, careful not to touch him. Not yet. With her other hand, she slipped her misericorde out of her belt.
“Meg?”
“I must ask you one question, and I beg you to answer in truth.”
He nodded. “As you wish.” There was an edge to his voice.
She chose her words carefully. “Were you among the reivers who came raiding the night my family died?”
He shook his head. “No. No, by my troth. That was not the work of my people. I give you my word.”
He sounded earnest. But there was only one way to be absolutely sure. She grit her teeth and placed her bare hand on his, wincing as his mind crashed into hers, a swarm of thoughts all jumbled on top of each other. She will not believe me. What more can I say if she is set against the truth? If only I knew who had done it, then I could prove my innocence. Her hand is on mine. I wish—
She snatched her hand away, her heart buzzing. She pressed her palm to the side of her head, holding her breath against the pain. She had seen no image of her home in flames. No thoughts of steel-helmeted riders sweeping through Hartfell. He had not been involved in the raid on her family.
She sheathed her dagger. “Get out.”
“I speak the truth, Meg. It was not me.”
“I believe you. I do. But you are a reiver.”
“Come now. You must know it is the way of life. Even the warden goes reiving.”
“That does not make it right.” He would never understand. Until his home went up in smoke and his family turned to ash, he would never know. She pointed again to the door.
“Go. I don’t ever want to see you again.”
He reached for her, then let his hands drop. “I am truly sorry about what happened to your family. It has broken your heart. But beware. A soft heart may still be mended. Margaret, do not let it turn your heart to stone.”
Bold words since he was cause for yet another crack in her soul. At least if it turned to stone, it could no longer tear.
“Out.”
* * *
Margaret spent the next fortnight trudging back and forth between Redesdale and Hartfell, making inquiries to everyone she dared. If she was too vocal in her quest, it would draw unwanted attention. She must not lose her anonymity. Always, she came away with nothing.
How could such a tragedy be so utterly forgotten? As though she and her family had never existed. Like ash in the hearth after the fire had burned out, scooped up and carried away to the refuse heap, where it was buried and left to decay until nothing at all remained. Like so many other families who had been reived and then forgotten.
Yet she carried on, limping only slightly as her leg regained its full strength. Back and forth, back and forth. Asking the same questions over and over again.
“Did you hear about what happened to the family out at Hartfell?” “I heard that years ago an entire family lost their lives to reivers out west. Do you know about it?” The answer was always the same. “No. I know nothing.” Once or twice, she took off her gloves and tested for the truth, but she could not do it every time.
Now it was market day again. The best time to go because folks came from all around. More so, Margaret was finding it harder to keep her larder full with two mouths to feed. Osanna was remarkably skilled at finding fodder from the moors, but they needed more to fill out the rawboned girl, and she still needed to replace the chickens she’d lost to the ruffians.
She and Osanna set off, misericorde secured at her waist and her crossbow stowed in her pack. Hamish bounded up, his tail wagging and a huge stick clutched in his jaws. Angus had left him here. Most likely as an excuse to come back, but Margaret had not seen Angus since banishing him.
She pried the stick from his maw. “Here you are, my good fellow.” She threw the stick into the heather, and Hamish ran after it, covering yards of ground with his long strides.
“The bones showed me a steel blade this morning. And a man with ginger hair,” Osanna announced. She always consulted her bones before they left for town. Last time they went in on market day, the bones had predicted good luck. All that had happened was the poultry man had had no chickens left. Margaret had come to expect only erratic and temperamental help from Osanna’s bones.
The girl talked of this and that, chattering away as they walked, and Margaret found the noise comforting. After so many years alone, she thought she was used to silence. But since Osanna had come along and Angus had left, Margaret found the solitude discomfiting.
When she was with Osanna, she could listen to her musings about herbs and food and if she would ever meet a handsome young man. Alone, Margaret was forced to listen to her own thoughts, which were not nearly as comfortable as Osanna’s.
When they reached the market square, it was packed with people. She splurged a few coins on two honey cakes, one for her and one for Osanna. Osanna’s eyes widened as she chewed her first bite. Margaret handed the last morsel of hers to Hamish, who swallowed quickly, eager for more.
“This is the most delicious thing I ever ate. In truth,” Osanna said. “We must learn to make these. It couldn’t be so very hard, do not ye think, my lady? I can find honey well enough. What else do we need?”
“Eggs.” Margaret put a few coins in Osanna’s hand and instructed her to go purchase two chickens. “Good chickens,” she told Osanna. “Fully feathered. Strong layers.”
Osanna nodded. “I know chickens well enough, my lady.”
“Osanna, what have I told you?”
Osanna ducked her head. “Not to call ye my lady.”
“Just so.” Margaret motioned toward the green where livestock was sold. “Go.”
Osanna scurried off, getting quickly swallowed up in the crowd.
Margaret filled her basket with salt, a wedge of cheese, and rough-ground barley—they could not afford wheat.
It was a relief that Angus had kept himself away, but she did miss the stores he always brought with him. This was the longest she’d gone without seeing him since that first day out on the moors. Back then, she could not get rid of him. Now he was finally gone, yet the memory of his smile lingered like the warmth of the sun on the dark stones of the heath.
Margaret bumped into the belly of a very large man.
“Aye, watch it there,” he grumbled.
“I beg your pardon.” Thoughts of Angus were naught but a distraction.
She crossed the square to the bladesmith. That would take her mind off Angus Robson, and she was always on the lookout to expand her armory.
She elbowed her way through a cluster of men for a closer look at the bladesmith’s cart. Mostly daggers and dirks, a quarter bushel of arrowheads, and two beautifully crafted swords. She ran her fingers along the polished blade of one.
She’d often considered procuring a sword, but the strength needed to wield one would always put her at a disadvantage against a man. Her crossbow could be just as deadly without needing to engage in hand-to-hand.
Someone behind her laughed. “Careful there, lassie. Wouldn’t want you to cut yourself.”
She turned to find a well-dressed man with hair the color of rusted iron watching her. By the gold threads that trimmed his cloak, he must be someone important. That or he cared little for the sumptuary laws. His eyes were a dark contrast to his copper lashes. A faint scar crossed the edge of his left eye, leaving a white line through his brow.
“You’ll find the linens and silks over there.” He pointed to the other side of the market green. “Leave the weapons to the men.”
“Hear, hear, Lord Dacre!” one of the men said. The others grunted their accord.
This must be the warden Angus had told her about. Sent by the king to maintain order but instead turned a reiver. It was because of people like him, who allowed the raiding to continue, that so many families suffered.
“Why is that?” Margaret asked lightly, but her hand went straight to the dagger hanging at her waist. “Afraid I might spill your innards right here on the green in front of all these boys?”
“Ha!” He laughed, but his eyes were keen. Not a man to be trifled with. “That is not to say I wouldn’t enjoy watching you try.”
“Ooh,” came a jeer from the chorus of men—the warden’s entourage of soldiers and attendants.
Margaret egged him on. “Perhaps you fear I will give you a mark to match your other eye.”
A shrewd look crossed his face. His eyes sharpened on her. “Have we met before? What is your name, girl?”
Margaret wouldn’t give her name for anything. “I’ve only just come to these parts. It is impossible for us to have met.”
He tipped his head to the side, studying her with a purposeful gaze. He shook his head. “Where do you live?”
Margaret remained silent. Clouds drew in overhead and closed the air of the market square tightly around them, casting a dark shadow over the place. Hamish moved closer to Margaret, pressing against her leg.
“I mean you no harm, I assure you.” The warden said with a deep and rumbling voice. “I am a gentleman.”
Margaret’s blood froze. She stared at the warden. She’d heard those words before. Though it had been dark that night, those words, that voice had remained in her heart like a thorn she could not expel. Her grip tightened on her misericorde while visions of smoke and ash and a circle of standing stones flared before her eyes.
Osanna’s bones came to mind. A steel blade. A man with red hair. Was it the warden who’d come reiving? Was it he who had cornered her in the stone circle, crushing her skull against the giant rock, bringing on her curse? She studied his face. It had been dark that night, but the scar across his eye matched where she had slashed with her blade.
She would have to touch him to know the truth.
She slipped her hand out of her glove. He also wore gloves, but there was a gap just big enough between the ruff of his sleeve and his glove where she could find bare skin.
Margaret dipped her head demurely, as if she had respect for this jackanapes. “I’m not from these parts,” she said in her best London accent. Hopefully he wouldn’t notice too much the change in her speech. She held out her hand for him to take, as though she were some sort of lady. It had worked for Gillis, and she hadn’t time to contrive anything better.
If her forwardness surprised him, he hid it. Perhaps his curiosity helped him overlook it. He took her hand—the hand of a commoner—and gave the merest nod of his head over it.
She used that moment to slide her fingers onto his skin. Faces flashed through her mind as he tried to place her. A scullery maid cornered in the stables. A woman laughing as she sipped wine. In the haze, she saw herself outlined in front of a pitted and moss-covered stone. Eyes frightened, mouth set firm. Blood on the side of her face. The image flickered, and in flashed another face, followed by another and another. A frightened girl in the woodland, the daughter of a noble pinned in the turning of the stairs. He was trying to place her. He had not recognized her from the face in the dark six years ago.
She didn’t need to see more. It was confirmed. She pulled her hand away, her head on fire with his thoughts.
It was he who had organized the raid against her family. That scar on his face—she’d given him that scar when he’d tried to overpower her even as her family lay burning. The warden.
She dropped his hand, and her other hand tightened on the misericorde in its sheath; she was ready to end him right in the market square. She’d be hanged for it. Or worse. Drawn and quartered and her head piked along the highway to warn others of what happened to those who opposed the Crown. Not that this blackguard properly represented the Crown.
She’d known from the beginning that revenge for her family’s suffering would be the end of her. In any case, she had little to live for. Especially now that Angus was a traitor.
Over the warden’s shoulder, she spotted Timothy Tilghman coming toward her. Their eyes met, and he smiled broadly. She had to leave before Timothy Smithy used her name in front of the warden.
It would be better to get away whilst Lord Dacre still seemed unsure of who she was. Margaret tried to squeeze through the gap between the warden and the men surrounding him.
His arm came out, blocking her. “I did not dismiss you,” he said. “Your name.”
Hamish growled, but the men paid him no mind.
Margaret looked up at the warden, done with her show of piety now that she’d gotten what she wanted. If she landed in the stocks for insolence, so be it. She refused to give respect where none was warranted. And he, above all, warranted none.
“I must go.” Margaret shoved through the crowd of men. She brushed past Timothy Smithy and, with a harsh whisper, said, “You do not know me.”
He blinked. Eyes wide.
Margaret pushed on. She did not look back to see what the pack of men at the bladesmith’s cart was doing. Weaving and bobbing through the crowd, she kept her head low until she ducked into an alley and crouched behind a water barrel. She held her breath and listened. Waited. After several minutes, when no one appeared trying to clap her in irons, she stood.
The streets were uneventful, just people going to and fro about their business. Margaret released the hold she’d had on her dagger.
At last, she’d found the man who had taken her family away. And had almost stabbed him in the middle of the square. Foolish and impulsive. She must keep her anger in check, take her time, and plan carefully how to complete her purpose. Find a way to get close.
“Margaret,” Timothy said as he caught up to her. “Here you are.”
She spun around.
He smiled his amiable grin. “What are you doing here?”
For an instant, she considered telling him. Revealing to him the truth about the warden. She could ask for his help. He might be willing. But if all did not go smoothly, Timothy Smithy could also end up piked along the highway.
“I came for market day.” That was why everyone was here.
He grinned. “Of course. I meant, why are you hiding here.”
A long moment of silence followed. He studied her, seemed to open his mouth to speak several times, but did not.
Margaret only shrugged.
He came closer, eager for something. Renewal of friendship, mayhap. Mayhap more. After all, last time she’d been alone with him, they had nearly kissed. “I still cannot believe you’re back.”
“I’m not back,” Margaret said. “I shan’t be staying long. I came for one purpose only, and that is nearly done.”
“What is it?”
Margaret shook her head. “’Tis a personal matter.”
His brows furrowed. “I’m sorry if I upset you last we met. I wonder if I should not have told you about the Robsons.”
“On the contrary, I’m glad you did. I was a fool not to have known.” She gave a little smile. “Forgive me; I must go.” Margaret smoothed the front of her kirtle and strode into the river of people who headed toward the gate. Osanna would be there waiting for her. Timothy fell into step alongside her.
“Will ye not come home for a bite to eat? Mother is passed, but father would be happy to see you.” His eyes traveled her, taking in far more than Margaret was comfortable with. “You look like you could use a good meal.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your mother,” Margaret said. “But I cannot.” She walked on.
Timothy sped up and blocked her way. “At least allow me to call on you. Tomorrow. Or the next day.”
“I do not think that a good idea.” She brushed past.
He stepped in front of her again. “Why were you at the bladesmith? If you need smithing, I am the best in these parts.”
“I know.” Margaret slipped the misericorde from her belt and held it out on the palm of her hand. At the very least, she could acknowledge his skill as a craftsman.
“You still have it?” He picked it up and examined it. “You’ve kept it well. Not a speck of rust.” He tested the edge. “Nice and sharp.” He looked into Margaret’s eyes. “I’d forgotten how beautiful it was.”
Margaret smiled despite her efforts not to let his easy ways draw her in. But if Timothy thought he could take up where they’d left off, he was mistaken. She had changed, and she doubted Timothy would care for the woman she’d become.
She stowed the dagger away. “Timothy—”
Before she could finish, someone tapped her on the shoulder. She turned and looked up into the face of Gillis. He held out a flower to her, a corn-cockle with bright purple petals on a long, downy stem. A gift from Angus, no doubt.
Gillis looked at Timothy, then back at Margaret with raised brows. Gillis wasn’t there when Timothy had come around the tower.
“This is Master Tilghman, the smithy. An old friend,” she added reluctantly. “Timothy, this is—”
“I know who he is,” Timothy said. He gave Margaret a quick bow and strode away.
“Master Tilghman?” Angus stepped in front of her. “You must be quite fond of him to give him a title. One he doesn’t even deserve.”
She should have known where there was Gillis, there would also be Angus. Too many people at the market today. Hamish betrayed her, welcoming his master with a whipping tail and effusive licking.
She handed Angus the flower. “No, thank you.” When he didn’t take it, she let it fall to the ground at his feet. Then she turned to walk away.
Angus grabbed her arm. She jerked out of his grasp.
“I thought you might want to know you’re being followed,” Angus said, watching her through hardened eyes.
Margaret glanced around. The streets were packed with people. Merchants, townsfolk, outliers, farmers, gentlefolk. How could he know if someone followed her?
“Someone besides you?” she asked.
He leaned close, lowering his voice. “The man in the brown hood, there by the butcher.” Margaret turned, but Angus pulled her back. “Do not look at him directly. Use your head, Meg.”
She hated that he was right. Always, his presence distracted her. She glanced down the side lane, turning her head just enough to see the man out of the corner of her eye. He was average in every way. Not tall, not short. Brown hair of the most common color. He was purchasing a link of sausage meats.
“He could be anyone.” She brushed past Angus and carried on toward the city gate, but she could feel Angus trailing behind her—along with his brother.
More than likely, the brown-hooded man was no one and Angus had invented the falsehood to get close to her. Or mayhap, the warden had finally placed her. Either way, she had made her feelings clear. There was no room in her life for a reiver.
She reached the gate leading out of the town. Osanna was waiting there with two hens hanging by their feet, one in each hand.
She held them up, pleased with herself. The hens squawked and fluttered their wings. “He wanted a farthing extra for a crate. But I says to him, ‘I can carry them just as well.’ He says, ‘’tis not good for laying.’ ‘But what hen lays whilst being carried upside-down?’ I asks. And a farthing saved is a farthing earned.” She grinned.
The hens looked plump and sturdy.
“You have done well.”
Osanna beamed. Hamish nuzzled the chickens, causing them to flap and squawk. Hopefully he would leave them be once they reached the tower. That last thing she needed was to lose yet another set of hens.
Gillis came forward, offering to carry them for her. Osanna cast a questioning glance at Margaret.
She shook her head. The Robson men were no longer welcome at Hartfell. Margaret set off along the lane, and Osanna hurried to catch up, the chickens resigned to their fate.
In a few moments, Angus was beside her. Still as sticky a fly as ever.
“Goodbye, Angus,” she said.
“What will you do now?” he asked.
“Goodbye.” She would do what she’d come here to do. Avenge her family.
“Meg.” He reached out to stop her, but once more, she pulled her arm from his grasp without a word.
He finally stopped following her. She heard his footsteps fade behind her. Osanna trailed a few paces, for once silent. Margaret strode on as fast as her legs allowed. After about a hundred paces, she turned to see if the hooded man was still following her.
He might have been, or he might not. She would never know because Angus and Gillis had stopped him on the road. From her distance, she could not hear what they were saying, but whatever he’d said, the hooded man was stuck with the two Robson boys blocking his way.
Margaret grabbed Osanna’s arm and pulled her into the bracken on the side of the road. They cut up through the fields of heather and long grass, keeping to the wooded areas, following a winding and twisting path until they reached Hartfell.
If the warden remembered who Margaret was, there was nothing she could do about it. He knew where Hartfell was and could find her in the blink of an eye. That he may have sent a man to follow her made her think he did not recall her face exactly and wanted more information. Perhaps he’d raided and burned so many families he’d lost track. Who knew how many other women he’d attempted to despoil.
* * *
Margaret let one more market day pass to give the warden a chance to forget their encounter on the green, but now the time had come to act. Instead of using the crowd to blend in, she planned to use the early morning to make her call. She set off before dawn, instructing Osanna to stay behind at the tower.
She wore her plainest dress with her hair wrapped in a roughhewn coif. As always, her misericorde hung at her waist, and her crossbow was tucked into her sack.
The mist hung low over the heathland, but rather than closing in and oppressing, it cleansed the earth with its dews. Like a baptism from heaven.
She breathed it in, savoring the musk of the damp earth, the heather, the sharp, crisp air. She’d found the man she was looking for; there was nothing holding her back now from accomplishing her goals. Nothing in her way. No men had come calling. No interruptions. No distractions. At last.
Hamish danced circles around her, running off into the bracken, then returning to make sure she was still coming. He had a boundless energy.
By the time she reached town, the mist had cleared and the sky was a mottle of bright blue and billowy white. She entered the western gate and made her way to the lower end of town.
The warden’s great house loomed above the other buildings at the top of the hill Redesdale was built on. So close, but she could not simply walk in and launch a bolt between his eyes.
Instead, she quietly stepped up to the door of the smithy and rapped lightly. Timothy’s mother was dead, he had said, but his father was still living. She hoped it would not be he who answered the door.
Footsteps sounded inside, the clink of a latch lifting, then the door creaked open. Timothy looked out at her, his surprise plain on his face. But it quickly transformed into something warm and welcoming. “Lady Margaret. Please come in.” He pulled the door open wider and let her pass.
She motioned for Hamish to wait, and he lowered himself down beside the door. Margaret silently slipped inside.