Margaret put one foot on the stairs leading to the chambers on the upper level. The warden’s room was just up and to the left. A hand came down firmly on her arm.
She spun around. Then she cursed. “Angus Robson. Go away. I’m not speaking to you.”
“Margaret Grey, what are you doing?”
She held up the pitcher. “My duties.”
“Liar.” He took a few steps forward so he stood between her and the passage to the warden’s room. “You’re sneaking.”
“I didn’t think you’d recognized me.” If she’d done such a terrible job on her disguise, maybe the warden had also identified her.
He leaned close. “I would recognize you anywhere.” He winked, and the cords round her heart pulled tight. “Why are you here, dressed like a servant?”
She told him the same story she’d used with Timothy. “I needed money. Timothy Smithy’s aunt runs the kitchen here. He got me this position.”
Angus’s eyes flashed like storm clouds. “Timothy Smithy. Have you been spending time with him?”
She couldn’t help a smile. She knew exactly how to vex him. “He’s been very kind to me. He loved me, you know, before the warden killed my family.”
The muscles in Angus’s neck strained. “It was Dacre, then? You have discovered the man who reived your family. And now you’re here for revenge. Your chance to make retribution.” He’d completely skipped over her revelation about Timothy as he fit the pieces together. “Did you think at all, Margaret? How did you plan to escape? What did you think would happen if—nay, when you are caught?”
“Hush,” she said. Another servant walked past. She didn’t need Angus laying her scheme out to everyone in the house. “I shan’t get caught.” At least she hoped. “But if I do, so be it. It is worth the risk.”
“Worth it to whom?”
“To me. And my family. I’m not afraid to die, Angus Robson.”
“So I surmised that first day we met.” He stepped closer as another man came along the corridor, followed by a page. One of the barons.
The man nodded at Angus, not seeming to care that Angus was inches away from a lowly servant. “Linkirk.”
“Milburn.” Angus acknowledged the man with a tip of his head.
When the corridor was clear again, Margaret pushed against Angus’s chest. “Step away. My mind is made up.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. Please forgive me.” He took her pitcher of ale and tipped it. A splash of amber liquid poured out onto his perfectly white ruff and down along his deep-blue doublet.
He pushed the empty jug back into her hands. “Now look what you’ve done, you clumsy fool,” he said loudly. “The master will hear about this.”
A young page heard the commotion and peeked around the corner.
“Look what she’s done,” Angus said, glaring at her.
Margaret looked down at the pitcher, then back up at Angus. It had happened so fast it took her a moment to fully understand. He was ruining her entire plan. Her poison was gone. She’d never be able to get this close to the warden again.
Osanna’s bones had been right. Something had blocked her path. Or rather, someone.
“How could you?” she asked. “How could you do this to me?”
He leaned close and whispered, “You may not value your life, but I do.” He lifted his head and clamped his hand around her lower arm.
Margaret tried to wrench out of his grip, but he held tight as he dragged her along the passageways and into the kitchen. She threw her jug onto the ground and used her free hand to reach across her body and pull out her misericorde. But Angus was faster. He grabbed it from her in the blink of an eye.
“You are so predictable,” he said.
Margaret wished now she’d not abandoned her crock. It would have made a good weapon. As usual, when Angus was around, her thoughts became muddled. Even now, while she wanted to slit his perfect neck, all she could think about was his hand wrapped around her wrist. So close to the skin of her hand.
She considered going for her crossbow, but they were already in the kitchens and surrounded by scullery maids, servants, and half the working folk of the house.
“You there, goodwife,” he called out to Martha.
Martha looked up, her eyes going wide at seeing a lord here in the sweltering depths. She came over, wiping her hands on her apron, then curtsied low.
Angus brought Margaret forward. He would pay for this. Somehow, he would pay for this. Once Margaret dealt with the warden, Angus would be next on her list to suffer.
“This woman must be punished for insolence.”
Martha’s eyes grew even wider.
“She has poured ale on me and refuses to apologize.” His finger brushed against his stained ruff as proof.
Margaret jerked her hand out of his grip, managing to break free only because he let her. “That is a lie.”
“When I confronted her, she threatened me with this.” Angus held up the misericorde.
Martha’s mouth fell open. For a commoner to threaten a lord was punishable by death. “I’ll send for the master.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Angus said. “I prefer to keep the warden out of this. As she is a pretty thing, my only demand is that she be let go and never given work here again.”
Margaret wanted to protest. To scream into the overheated kitchen that it was all a lie. But her word against Angus Robson’s, son of the Earl of Linkirk, counted for naught. She could unmask herself, come forward as Lady Margaret, but that would not help her get revenge. It would only draw the warden’s eye to her more quickly.
So she played her part, eyes to the floor, though the subservience nearly killed her. Angus had effectively ended her chances of work in the warden’s house. She would never forgive him for this.
Martha nodded. “It will be done.”
Angus handed Margaret her dagger, and without another word, he turned and left.
“He is lying,” Margaret said. “I did none of those things.” To argue was futile. She was a servant. Even if she had a witness, she could not win.
Martha simply pursed her lips at her. “Be off, then.”
Margaret wouldn’t get her wages for the day. She’d taken work here to get close to the warden, but that didn’t mean she didn’t also need the money.
“Fine.” Margaret spun around. There were other ways to kill him. Lord Dacre would have to leave his stronghold at some point, and she would be ready. It would be a little harder, but she would get it done.
Margaret considered stopping by the smithy on her way home. She owed Timothy an explanation for when his aunt would surely come calling, angry for embarrassing her with the recommendation of a poor worker.
She couldn’t face him. He would ask questions Margaret didn’t want to answer. It was bad enough that she’d taunted Angus with stories of Timothy. Angus deserved it; Timothy did not.
Margaret rounded the corner by the small stone wall of the warden’s kitchen garden—a carefully cultivated collection of flowers and greens. Turnips. Rosemary. Several rows of lacy-topped parsnips. A patch of herbs with sweet cicely, St. John’s wort, monkshood, angelica—
She came to a stop and peered over the wall.
This misadventure might pay off after all.
She pulled her coif down over her head and backtracked to the garden gate. It was nearly dark now, and the house was still busy ministering to its guests. She slipped in and hurried to the herb garden. ’Twas the monkshood that had caught her eye, with its tall stem and purple hooded flowers. But it wasn’t the flowers she was after. It was the clumps of dark, tapering roots.
Monkshood had grown in the garden of St. Helen’s for treating fever of the lungs. The nuns had used it with great caution because of its deadly poison, far more potent than what she’d made from the bittersweet. A poison that would be very useful in the new plan coming together in her head.
She dug up the root clusters of several plants and wrapped them in her apron. Quickly as she’d come in, she abandoned the garden and continued her way through Redesdale.
The town was slowing down. Families settling in for the evening. Smoke puffing from the rooftops and thatches. The village breathing a gentle sigh as the workday ended and the quiet night approached. ’Twas the best time to wander the streets, with the crowds retired and the troublemakers not yet out.
Beyond the town walls, the night sky glistened. Nothing but stars from horizon to horizon. Despite the awful things that had happened to her at night, it was still her favorite time. She drank deeply of the peace this solitude offered.
She had missed her opportunity with the warden. But out here on the moor, in the silence of the stars and the softly swaying heather, she was glad to be alive. If Angus hadn’t stopped her, she might never have seen the night sky again.
It had not slipped past her that in the midst of disgracing her, Angus had called her pretty. Even so, he would not get off so easily after purposefully foiling her plan. She would find a way to settle the score. Something humiliating. Something that would put his integrity in question as he had put hers.
When she arrived at Hartfell, Osanna was out back with the chickens. Margaret did not see her, but she could hear her clucking to the two hens. Osanna loved those fowl. Ever since carrying them home, she’d become besotted with them.
Hamish bounded toward Margaret, his tail going so hard the whole rear half of his body rocked to and fro. She steadied herself for his attack. He lunged at her, his paws landing easily on her shoulders, his head now equal with hers, his tongue coursing over her face.
“Hello, good fellow.” Margaret rubbed her gloved hands through his fur, scratching his chest in the way that made him lean against her, his ears laid back, a smile on his black lips.
Osanna came running at the sound. “Back so soon?” she panted. “And the warden?”
Margaret shook her head. “No. My purpose was thwarted, and I was forced to leave before I could finish.”
“See now, my lady? The bones never lie.” She patted the pouch hanging from her waist. Osanna’s joy that the mission had failed was only too clear. “And don’t it feel good to be home, safe ‘n’ sound?”
Margaret opened the door to the tower. A warm fire and a fresh loaf of baked bread greeted her. It did feel good to be home. Osanna most certainly earned her keep. Margaret crossed to the table to cut herself a slice. She was famished. She’d barely eaten all day. Had she still been at the warden’s, she would have had pickings from the leftovers of the feast.
When she reached for the knife, she noticed a small black leather pouch sitting on top of a folded parchment scrap. She picked up the pouch and emptied out a handful of coins. Enough money to keep them well for some time. She opened the letter and read.
Your wages.
That was all it said. No name to indicate the sender, though even a simpleton would have known it was from Angus. Rather bold of him to come here after what he’d done.
She held up the coin purse. “Did you see who brought this?”
Osanna came closer. “What is it?” She picked up the note. “What does it say?”
“It says it’s my wages.”
Osanna fingered the coins. “’Tis is a great sum for only one day’s work. The warden is very generous.”
“This is not from the warden.” Margaret scooped up the coins and dropped them into the pouch. “It’s from Angus. I’m sure of it. When was he here?” He must have ridden out on horseback promptly after she left the warden’s house. It would have been easy to beat her home.
“I have not seen him,” Osanna said, her eyes still on the bag of money. “No one has come round all day.”
A man of stealth, that Angus Robson. She should march these coins right back to him, remind him that she didn’t need or want his charity. Only she’d vowed never to speak to him again because he was a reiver.
On the other hand, after ruining her revenge, he owed her. This money was the least he could do. She set the pouch of coins on the mantel.
“I will be needing your help with something, Osanna.”
“Yes, my lady?”
Margaret turned out her apron onto the table, spilling the clusters of root and dirt.
Osanna picked one up and smelled it. She gave Margaret a puzzled look. “What is it?”
“Monkshood.”
Osanna dropped the root and wiped her hands on her apron front.
“I have a new plan, and with my skill and your knowledge, I think it is much better than the last.”