The following morning, Margaret prepared to leave before dawn to the market square. She needed plenty of time to find the best place to catch the warden. He would be at church first, worshipping the goodness of God. Then he would turn around and steal the livelihood of some family—if not their very lives themselves—in a most ungodly way.
He deserved to feel the sting of her bolt. If only someone had put one in him six years ago, she might still have her family. Who could say the number of lives she was saving. Yesterday, Angus had called it nonsense, but it was all she was living for.
She wrapped the poison-tipped bolt in a scrap of cloth and then placed it in her bag, then stowed her dagger in the sheath at her waist.
“Perhaps I should come with you.” Osanna’s worry seemed to be building with each weapon Margaret equipped.
“No.” Margaret had not saved her from her tormentors to have her caught up in her deeds. As far as Margaret knew, this crumbling pele tower was the only home Osanna had known since her mother had been burned. “Stay here with Hamish. Don’t let him follow me. Remember,” she took Osanna by the shoulders, “if I do not return, go to Angus. He will take you in.” This was the only way she could keep Osanna safe.
“I do not agree with this.”
“I know. But this is how it must be.” Her family must have justice, and she must rid herself of this curse. Margaret pulled Osanna into her arms, careful not to touch her bare skin. “Thank you,” she said. “You are the only family I’ve had in six years.”
Osanna sniffed, and her body shuddered. “Don’t go,” she whispered.
“I must.” Margaret stroked Osanna’s russet hair, then turned and walked away. She would be careful. She would return.
The road to town was crowded this morning. Margaret kept her head down, making her way quickly to the market square. She gave the smithy a wide berth. She’d not likely get any approval from Timothy either.
This day the crowd was her friend. It would conceal her as well as any hiding place. She found the warden, as she’d expected, meandering through the carts and wagons of goods.
He drew the eyes of the crowd as he went in his fine clothes, with his men following at his heels. The flash of steel hanging at his side. He both parted the crowd and pulled them in, as if they were desperate to feast on the scraps from his table yet equally wary.
It disgusted her, the way he walked through town, as if each member owed him their lives. In truth, he was the one who lived off the hard work of the townsfolk. Off the cattle and sheep that belonged to the people of the Middle March. He grazed off each and every person, growing fat on their labors while cutting down any who opposed. Like Angus had said, ’twas the way of life.
If the warden had never come and turned her home and family to ash, perhaps she could accept it as easily as Angus and the good folk of Redesdale. Perhaps it would simply be the way of life.
Margaret turned about, searching for a place where she could take a clean shot while remaining unobserved.
There, on the top floor of the inn. She dodged across the busy market square and opened the door to the inn. It was bursting with people.
She put on an air of purpose. Someone looking lost was always under more suspicion than someone who seemed to know their business. This she’d learned many times in London when attempting to go anywhere riffraff was frowned upon—which was quite near everywhere.
With her chin held high and shoulders tight, she slipped past the milling people and into the back hall. Up a flight of narrow stairs and then another. With any luck, the upper rooms would be empty. Most people were out on market day. Better than sitting, doing nothing in the flea-infested rooms.
She knocked on the first door. There was no answer. She cracked it open and peered in. A snort made her jump. On the bed was a huge lump of a man snoring like thunder. Margaret closed the door silently and tried the next room.
When her knock went unanswered, she pressed her ear against the door, listening. All seemed quiet. She pushed it open and peeked in. Empty. She crossed the threshold and closed the door softly behind her, drawing the bolt to keep it locked. This room would give her a good view of the square below. She took her crossbow from her sack. With great care, she unwrapped the poisoned bolt and loaded it into the bow.
From the window, she saw the warden still strutting around the square.
She pushed the panes open. Looking down the shaft, she lined up with the warden. Two men following at his heels kept sharp eyes on the crowd, but their glances did not stray to the upper windows of the surrounding buildings. She would have to be quick. Release her bolt and be gone. It would not be hard to see that the arrow had come from the inn. She must shoot and leave.
The warden stopped to admire some velvet cloth. By turning sideways, he made a smaller target, with his shoulder toward the inn, but Margaret needed only to break the skin. The monkshood would do the rest.
Release the bolt and be gone. Easy. They would never suspect a woman.
She put her finger on the lever.
Then she took it off.
This wasn’t the first time she’d used her crossbow on a person. There was Jack Hall, of course. And before that, to ward off the man who had backed her into a corner by St. Paul’s church. To frighten off the gypsy children who’d tried to relieve her of her possessions outside of New Castle. The man who’d tried to drag her under the Southwark bridge. She’d shot him in the leg.
But she’d never killed anyone before.
The warden deserved to die. His tyranny would be ended. His reiving. His murders. Finished. So why did sweat trickle down her back? She had a clear view. Now was her moment.
She must do this. For her family and for justice. To free herself from the curse. This was her whole purpose in coming back.
She shifted her finger back over the release lever. Hovering. Waiting for the smallest amount of pressure to send her bolt flying. The warden turned his back, presenting a broad, perfect target.
Now.
She held her breath. Steadied her aim.
Squeezed the lever at the same moment a familiar figure caught her eye. Her bolt flew wide, missing the warden and thwacking into the fold of cloth. The warden stared at the bolt, then lifted his eyes up and over the heads of the townsfolk.
She ducked away from the window, flattening herself against the wall. “Angus!” The devil take him. The sight of him in the market square had pulled off her aim. Shouting mounted from outside. Now it was too late.
She quickly stashed her crossbow in her hidden harness.
The warden’s voice rose through the square, but she could not quite make out what he was saying. No doubt he was demanding to know who’d taken a shot at him.
Margaret had only moments to get out of there unseen. Any instant, they would be swarming the inn, asking about who was in which rooms. Margaret crossed to the door and pressed her ear against it. Footsteps sounded, hurrying down the corridor—the other guests drawn out by the commotion.
She waited five heartbeats, then unlatched the door and inched it open, slipping quietly into the hall. It was empty now. She scurried down the stairs. The public room was also empty. Margaret cut through the kitchen and out into a narrow alley.
She darted through the streets until she reached the opposite side of the square. The warden was in an uproar, threatening death in the worst terms to whoever had done this and offering obscene amounts of coin for anyone who could turn the blackguard in.
She couldn’t help a grin.
“Margaret.” Angus grabbed her hand and towed her away from the confusion.
She considered sticking him with her misericorde, but that would only draw more attention to herself. She followed willingly, back behind the wall of the little church.
He spun and faced her. “What is this?” He was mad. Furious. And in his hand, he held her crossbow bolt, wielding it as though it was a child’s plaything.
“Careful,” Margaret whispered. Even the smallest nick could kill. This bolt wasn’t meant for him. “The tip is poisoned.” She hadn’t planned on telling him, but if she said nothing, he might accidentally cut himself.
“Poisoned?” He glared at her, his anger steaming over. “Margaret Grey. What have you done?”
“Nothing anyone else wouldn’t have done.”
“Do you know what will happen if you are discovered?”
She shrugged. “It couldn’t be worse than what he did to my family.”
He pulled her farther down the deserted street. “On the contrary. It will be much, much worse. What if you were seen?”
“I wasn’t seen. I’m not a fool.”
He sighed. “You are the biggest fool. You should be thankful I managed to smuggle the bolt away in the commotion. It wouldn’t take a fortune reader to match this bolt to you. Yours is the only weapon small enough to fire it. And now you tell me it is also poisoned?”
She patted her dress where her bow was concealed underneath, lashed to her leg. “No one knows.”
He shook her shoulders. “What about the Halls? What happens when word gets to them that an attempt was made on the warden’s life by someone wielding a half-size crossbow? How long will they deliberate before they turn you in for a pile of coins—and a sure chance of revenge?”
She’d forgotten about them. They would be more than happy to see her hanged. “I hadn’t planned on missing.”
“You think the punishment would be less if you’d killed him?”
She stepped closer, speaking in a harsh whisper. “That matters little to me. Besides, if it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t have missed.”
He stared at her. “How is it my fault?”
She glanced down the alley. Shouting from the market square grew louder. And now Angus was asking about things she’d rather not mention.
“Meg?”
She let out a huff. “When I caught sight of you, it distracted me. Because the bolt was poisoned.” She looked at the dusty ground. That was why her shot had gone wide, so that by no chance could the tip break his skin.
The shouting grew closer, coming down the lane. What if she had been seen? Impossible, but still, what if?
“I have to get out of here.” She ducked around Angus and hurried away. He followed on her heels. As she rounded the corner, a group of the warden’s guards appeared, entering the street at the other end, tromping their way toward her. They were closing in from both sides.
“Kiss me.” She pulled on Angus’s doublet, tugging him close. “Kiss me.”
He stared at her for a moment, then seemed not to care why this sudden change of direction. He leaned close, his lips already parting.
“But do not touch me,” she warned. She wrapped one of her gloved hands around his back, pulling him right up against her. “Pretend you are kissing me. And make it look good.”
One of his hands cradled her head while the other slipped to her waist. “You do not make it easy on a man,” he whispered so close that they shared the same breath. “Not that I’m complaining, but why are we doing this?”
“Because guards are coming from both directions. I don’t think they’re coming for me, but I can’t be sure.”
“Give me your weapon.”
Margaret pulled up on her kirtle until she could reach the crossbow, tugging on the laces to loosen it. She tugged it from her leg and wedged it between herself and Angus.
Angus’s hand went from the nape of her neck to the weapon, but his other hand held her firmly in place. Three of the warden’s guards walked past, meeting up with the others and then moving off in the direction of the square. From what she could see around Angus’s head, they’d not even glanced in her direction.
“They’re gone,” Margaret said, but Angus didn’t let go.
He was staring at her, his eyes so close she felt she was swimming in their waves. “What happens if I kiss you?”
It sounded so easy. They’d been in this position before. But a simple kiss was not something that could ever happen, no matter how strongly she wished it. “Then I stick you with this.” Her misericorde pricked his side.
“I don’t believe you,” he whispered.
“Try me.” She ducked out of his grasp. He was taking a risk to conceal her crossbow for her. Since he’d been right beside the warden when the shot had been loosed, he could hardly be a suspect, but still, if he were caught with her bow, his head would be the one piked along the highway. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” He grinned.
Margaret huffed and darted down another narrow lane. Already, she’d lingered too long near the scene of her crime. Every time she glanced backward, more and more guards filled the streets, shouting to one another.
She slowed her pace. Running would surely draw attention. The problem was she needed to get to the other side of the market cross to leave. From where she stood now, all roads led back to the square. A pile of baskets lay on the ground beside the fishmonger’s shop. She picked one up, hooking it over her arm. Now she looked like every other woman in town this morning. She bobbed her way through the crowd, trying to show equal portions curiosity as to why the hubbub and progress in making her way toward the city gate. She’d almost reached it when someone called from behind her.
“You there.”
Margaret turned.
“No one leaves the city.” A guard approached.
“What?” she asked.
“No one leaves the city. There’s been an attempt on the warden’s life.”
“Mercy!” Margaret clutched the basket to her chest. “I hope he’s not hurt.”
The guard said nothing. He simply herded Margaret into the crowd of citizens being redirected back toward the market cross.
They filed the people through the open green in the center of the square where guards searched them all. Thank heaven Angus had taken her crossbow. Perhaps he’d already made it out of the city.
Margaret kept her head down. For a moment, she contemplated making a dash for the smithy. She could always wait it out at Timothy’s. But then he would be caught up in her unlawful deeds again. She’d already put Angus in danger. No need to add more to her list. If she ever got out of this predicament, she’d keep her distance from Angus. She’d made such a promise before, but this time she meant it.
If only she hadn’t missed. If only Angus hadn’t shown up. No matter how many times she wished him away, he kept showing up.
Someone bumped into her, and she staggered into a solid wall of a man.
“I beg your pardon,” she said.
There was a deep grumbling sound, and Margaret looked up, her face barely a foot from the warden’s.