Once more, hours before dawn, Margaret was up and getting ready for another trip into Redesdale. This time to serve for Martha Lynde at the warden’s feast. Margaret wore her dusky green kirtle. It was old and worn and would easily mark her as a servant.
She had spent the whole of yesterday weaving a tie to go around her thigh, where she might conceal her little crossbow under her skirts. She worked now to fasten her weapon on with plaited leather.
“I tell ye again, my lady, I do not like this plan.” Osanna cut a wedge of bread from the loaf and wrapped it for Margaret to eat on the way. “The bones tell me yer path will be blocked.”
While Margaret had been weaving yesterday, Osanna had been complaining. “What if yer found out? What if ye finish the warden but can’t escape?” She had tossed her collection of omens at least fifty times trying to get a favorable outcome.
“No matter how I read ’em,” Osanna said, spilling her bones out on the table one last time, “it does not bode well. What if yer caught?”
“Then you may tip your hat at my head when it is piked outside the town gate.”
The color melted from Osanna’s face.
“And you can keep the chickens.”
Osanna did not laugh.
“I will see this finished. No matter the cost.” Margaret lowered her skirts over the concealed crossbow. “There. How does that look?”
Osanna tipped her head one way, then the other, inspecting Margaret. “Seems hid well enough. Do ye want me to ask the bones?”
“No need.” If Osanna’s omens gave her yet another ill-favored outcome, Margaret might lose heart. What could the bones tell her anyway about how well she’d concealed her weapon. She stuffed two bolts down her busk and adjusted the misericorde at her waist. All of these were only for defense.
Her real weapon was the little vial of poison she’d extracted from the bittersweet Osanna had gathered. This she stowed in her alms purse, which also hung at her waist.
Fully armed, she opened the tower door. Hamish rushed out. “Not this time, my good fellow.”
Hamish looked back at her with eager eyes.
“You have to stay here.”
He tipped his head to the side, listening. Curious as to why, on this occasion, he must remain home. Margaret would be busy in the warden’s house, and if she didn’t make it out, Hamish would be waiting forever.
She pushed her hands into her gloves and rubbed his head. “Sorry.”
Osanna frowned.
“If I’m not back by dawn on the morrow, you must assume the worst. Go to Angus and Gillis. They will take you in.”
Osanna nodded, for once without words. She handed her the wrap of bread and then flung herself at Margaret, clinging to her. This was not a great vote of confidence. Margaret pulled her head away, assuring that no part of her skin would come in contact with Osanna’s.
She didn’t pull far enough. Osanna’s cheek brushed against the small patch of bare skin at the base of Margaret’s neck.
A rush of love came through her. And fear. What will I do if she is killed?
Margaret jerked away. Always alone was certainly easier, with no ties to bind. But it warmed her heart to know that should she not return, there was at least one person in this world who loved her.
“I will be careful,” Margaret said, rubbing away the ache from Osanna’s thoughts.
She had to remind Hamish again to stay behind, then she set off, following the River Rede down toward the road that would take her into town.
* * *
Margaret had been in the warden’s kitchen all day, kneading bread, basting meats, running various trays of food around the house. She’d seen the warden’s chambers, catching a glimpse of the inside when she carried up his breakfast. Lord Dacre himself was in the room, but he did not give her a second glance. She was a servant now, not worthy to look into the eyes of the master.
While she kneaded the third batch of bread for the feast, she went over her plan. First, she must get through the meal, serving the warden as if he were not a black-hearted murderer. Her fingers brushed against her dagger just thinking about it.
“No need for murder,” Martha Lynde said.
Margaret’s head snapped up. “What?”
“The bread,” Martha clarified. “A gentle kneading is all; don’t wring the life out of it.”
“Oh.” Of course Martha had meant the bread. Margaret hadn’t realized she’d been working the dough so hard. She formed it into a round loaf and set it with the others to rise. She’d had to remove her gloves to accomplish the tasks required of her. As she moved around the kitchen, she kept her exposed hands tucked tightly under her folded arms.
With a grunt, she hefted a tray of baked bread to carry it up to the great hall. The whole house was a hive, with servants buzzing in every direction. Guests arriving for the feast were directed to the upper hall, where they were entertained with music and spirits until the meal began.
Once the family and guests were occupied with eating and the after-feast entertainment, the servants would be busy readying their master’s rooms for sleeping. Or readying their horses for the journey home. That was when Margaret would steal into the warden’s room and empty the vial into his drink. The warden would fall asleep and simply never wake.
She threaded her way in and around the mass of people moving through the large house. According to Martha, half the Middle March was coming. What an absurd lot these men of the border were. They would gather tonight at the warden’s table, eating and laughing as if all was well. Then, in a few weeks’ time, they’d be out reiving. Riding on swift Galloways to plunder the men they’d just supped with. And the warden would be first among them. Killing whoever stood in his way, leaving the widows behind, bereived. Robbed of everything—even their husbands.
Mayhap after this warden was disposed of, the king would send someone who would do the job properly. Even after living in the streets of London, these borderlands were the most lawless place in the country.
She’d heard from one of the spit boys that thirteen years ago, King James of Scotland had hanged the leader of the Armstrong reivers, along with more than twenty of his men. Hanged them without even a trial. There may be hope yet, but it certainly wasn’t coming from this warden—nor Henry, King of England. Nor Mary, the new Queen of Scotland and a babe of less than one year.
Margaret set the bread on the tables. The hall looked regal. Festooned in garlands of heather and sage. It smelled like a summer garden. Too bad it was so full of people.
A bell clanged, signaling time for the feast. Margaret disappeared from the hall, hurrying back to the kitchen. The place was a swarm of food and people. Fires burned, and water boiled, and Margaret would have dived into the River Rede to cool off, but there was not time. The lords and ladies were waiting for their meal.
If things had been different, Margaret might have been at the table too, with her father, Sir Godric, and her mother, Margery. But then she would never have come to know the difference betwixt the life of the servant and that of the master. Beggar and lord. So much distance between them, and yet none at all.
“Mary Barnes,” Martha shouted.
Margaret hurried over. “Yes?”
She handed Margaret a large crock. “You are responsible to keep the master’s cup filled.”
Margaret stared at her. “Me?”
“Aye.”
He might recognize her. “I cannae. Give me another duty. Any duty.”
Martha frowned. Though Margaret had been working under her for only one day, she’d come to know that look well. Thus far, it had been aimed at other workers, but now Martha leveled it at her. “You will do as I ask. The warden likes a pretty face, and yours is the best we’ve got. You will attend him and those at his table, or you will go home unpaid.”
“Yes, madam.” She took the cruse from Martha and made her way back to the hall. If the warden recognized her, her chance of revenge was over—at least for this night. It seemed no matter how well she planned, the whole world was against her. Perhaps this was the obstacle in her path Osanna’s bones had foretold. One setback after another, and all the while, her family growing colder and colder in their graves.
The hall was filled with people now. Brocades and jewels all packed into the room, crowding the tables and creating a din that had Margaret regretting her plan to serve in the warden’s house no matter how desperate she was to have her revenge.
She pulled her coif lower over her forehead and down around her neck. If only she could change the green of her eyes. It was her greatest giveaway.
She took three steps into the hall and nearly dropped her clay pitcher. Angus was here, sitting across the room beside his brother Gillis.
He’d not seen her. At least not yet. She turned her head toward the wall as she made her way to the high table. Mercy. He looked better than ever tonight, his hair tamed into an orderly mess, dark-blue doublet setting off his gray eyes. The easy way he made Gillis part of the conversation. She ripped her eyes away again. Angus’s presence was just one more complication she didn’t need this evening.
A dozen or more servants milled around the room, bringing food or pouring mead, and Margaret was simply one of them. If she kept her head down, he’d never notice her. She could blend in.
His was a prominent family in the area, even if he was from across the border. She’d been shortsighted not to assume he would be here at the warden’s great feast.
She stood behind Lord Dacre, her head lowered, waiting for his cup to need refilling, duty-bound to his drinking pleasure. She dared not even glance in Angus’s direction. Lord Linkirk sat at the high table, surrounded by the other heads of households.
The warden drained his cup, and Margaret stepped forward. She lifted the heavy flagon from the table and filled his cup, setting it back and stepping away all in a matter of moments. The despicable man was so used to being served he did not even notice.
Margaret kept herself tucked behind the warden’s large chair, stepping out only long enough to fill the cup of whichever lord needed it—including Angus’s father. It took all her willpower not to spit in the man’s drink. Mayhap she would have, for Angus’s sake, had Angus not turned out to be a reiver.
Every so often, another worker brought her a new cruse filled to the top. When the meal slowed and her pitcher was empty and no replacement arrived, she made her escape, slipping out of the hall whilst a juggler danced with a trio of gleaming knives in the center of the room.
In the kitchen, she refilled the crock, carrying it with her as she made her way to the stairs leading up to the warden’s chambers. The place was mostly deserted, as everyone was busy in the great hall or the kitchen.
Margaret peered up the steps. This was it. She had only moments to poison the drink before someone might walk by. She fished the vial out and poured the whole of it into the pitcher. Would it be enough? Bittersweet was weak, but it was all she’d had.
Now all that was left was to place it in the warden’s room.
What if someone else drank from the cruse? It was a risk she would have to take. But then she would have innocent blood on her hands. Still, she would never have another opportunity like this. He was unmarried, so there was no wife who might partake, and a servant would never be brazen enough to drink from the master’s portion.
She’d been waiting six years for this. He deserved it. No sense waiting any longer.