by Nene Adams ©1998 - All rights reserved

CHAPTER ONE

Came the rush of ruddy dawn cascading down from white-shouldered mountains, and Castle Inishowen fell to siege. 

Madrigal shuddered in terror and tried to place her shackled arms over her head, but the chain that fastened her bonds to the massive bed was too short. Whimpering, she allowed her wealth of blue-black hair to cover her face and closed dark purple eyes tightly, wincing each time the castle walls shuddered beneath another blow from the attacking army's siege engines. 

A wild cry echoed up from the courtyard three stories below: ''The gate! They've breached the gate!'' 

Madrigal shivered again and jerked her leg against the cuff that fastened it tightly to the chain. Although only a slave, and her lord's bedslave at that, she'd heard enough from the other servants to be nearly faint with horror at the thought of being in the hands of the knight known as Blacksunne. Lord Francis had waxed eloquent about the dark knight, filling the slave girl's mind with a thousand terrors... which were about to come true, if what she was hearing drifting through the arrow-slits was any indication of the way the battle was going. 

Please, she prayed as she shivered, let me find a way to die before he comes.Wrapping thin arms around her slightly swollen belly, Madrigal whispered brokenly, ''Please...''

Dozens of masculine throats roared in unison, ''The Sunne! The Sunne!'' and the screaming began in earnest as the attackers pressed their advantage. In the midst of the roiling melee, one figure clad in black enamel-chased plate armor stood out like a Titan - immovable, implacable and incapable of defeat. 

The black knight's high tenor voice carried over the sounds of battle: ''May God damn you for a coward, Westfield! Show yourself!'' he thundered, waving a massive broadsword overhead. 

The battle surged on as the knight strode through it, seeming scarcely to notice the men he mowed down as if they had been mere wheat to his scythe. Blood splattered the peacock-blue surcoat he wore over his armor; the device on the shoulder - a stylized sun as black as a raven's breast set on a field of gold - stood out clearly. This was the dreaded Blacksunne; the knight who had never known defeat in battle and whose fame carried all before him; the knight who had ridden with King Richard the Lion-Hearted on Crusade to the Holy Land and received his spurs from the royal hand. The sound of his name alone was enough to cause his foes to shudder aside in dread. 

Blacksunne's voice was as high and light as an unbearded boy's, but those who mistook the knight for an unblooded child soon learned otherwise, often as their souls were sent shrieking to Hell. ''Westfield!'' Blacksunne shouted, ''Come, test your steel against mine! COME!!'' 

Lord Francis Westfield was not in the midst of battle, rallying his rag-tag collection of men; he was not in the castle, seeing to its defenses; the lord and master of Inishowen was in the stables, trying frantically to saddle a recalcitrant mare. ''Hold still, you damned jade!'' he gritted, struggling to fasten a stubborn saddle girth, when a voice from behind made him start in fear and surprise. 

''Going somewhere, cousin?'' 

Lord Francis turned his head slowly, and a sickly smile spread across his face. He did not have time to reply as a gauntleted fist drove into his mouth, and he tumbled down into sparkling darkness. 

Lord Francis Westfield knelt on the cold stone floor of the Great Hall, directly in front of the dais where the new lord of the manse sat in a massive carved oak chair. Blacksunne had not yet removed his armor; nor had he removed his helm or lifted its visor. He sat at his ease, however, the great broadsword of the O'Cameron ancestors leaning against the arm of the chair within easy reach. 

Lord Francis pulled at the bonds fastening his wrists behind his back and winced as the movement sent another jolt of pain through his head. ''So, cousin,'' he spat sarcastically, ''had I known you were coming I'd have slain the fatted calf.'' 

Blacksunne did not move, although one hand clenched into a fist. ''I gave you every opportunity to surrender, Francis. You took what was MINE, and expected me to give it up without a fight?! You're either a very brave man or a fool.'' 

''Is it foolish to be ambitious? Remember, cousin, it was not I who left this place to go crusading with the Lion-Heart to the Holy Land. Five years gone, was it not? And poor Sir Giles, left all alone in his old age, his only child deserting him in his hour of need...'' 

''Cease your damned lies!'' Blacksunne's fist thudded on the arm of the chair and the armored figure leaned forward menacingly. ''You have always coveted Inishowen, cousin. Do not think I haven't heard about the way you invited yourself into the castle right after father became ill. You cozening bastard - was he even cold before you started issuing orders?'' 

Lord Francis smiled, showing a missing front tooth; the wound still bled sluggishly, and the light beard around his mouth was stained, dark red against gold. ''Possession is nine-tenths of the law, cousin, despite what Sir Giles' will might have been. You were not here. I was. T'is as simple as that.'' 

Blacksunne relaxed and casually rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. ''Well, I possess Inishowen now. You and yours aren't made for war, Francis; more for raping serfs and terrifying sheep.'' The dark knight chuckled. ''You should have stayed on your mother's estate in Cornwall. '' 

''My mother's estate?! You must think me mad! Cornwall is nothing more than a filthy boil on the buttock of the world, and my mother is the brazenest whore who ever lifted her skirts to a guardsman's dancing arse! Seeing Inishowen, who would NOT be tempted?'' 

''You should have known better. Cousin, you have known me long; our fathers were brothers and our families close. Did you truly believe I would stand aside and do nothing?'' 

''I'd honestly hoped you dead, but it doesn't really matter what I believed or dreamed.Come, pronounce your judgement. I admit my crime willingly, if it is a crime to covet and not a sin I could be shriven for by any shave-pate priest.'' 

Blacksunne rose. Both hands went to the helm that shielded his features. Lord Francis' hazel eyes darted back and forth; he searched for sympathy from the men who lined the walls of the Hall and found nothing but scorn and disdain. 

Blacksunne reached back and unclasped the hasp that held the two pieces of the war helm together, then drew it off in one smooth gesture. Long, dark crimson hair snaked across armored shoulders, and Lady Cathelin Brigit O'Cameron stood revealed, her molten amber eyes as haggard as a hawk's at bay. 

''So, cousin. You ask me for judgement. I desire justice. We shall see if the twain can meet.'' 

Lord Francis's lips twisted into a sneer. ''I'll not beg, Cat. Strike off my head with your bloody great sword, or do whatever else you will. But do it quickly; I weary of kneeling here like a supplicant before a vengeful goddess.'' 

Cathelin slowly walked down the stairs of the dais. ''I should send you straight to a deserving Hell, Francis. But I respect your mother too much to kill her only son, thieving bastard tho' he is.'' 

Turning to her chief man-at-arms, a taciturn older man with a figure like an ale barrel and a rusty red mustache, Cathelin said, ''Cut off his right thumb. Then give him thirty pieces of silver - no more, no less - and escort him to the boundaries of Inishowen. And,'' she continued, swiveling her head to address the kneeling man, ''if I ever hear of you befouling my land again, you pig-dog, I'll have no more mercy. I'll take your head and nail it to the doorpost to serve as an oracle.'' She smiled savagely, showing salt white teeth. ''My wild ancestors would have done no less.'' 

Lord Francis tried to spit but his mouth was too dry. The removal of his right thumb meant he would be unable to use a sword, unless he could transfer that skill to his other hand. The jibe about thirty pieces of silver burned in his soul like acid. How like Cathelin to rub coarse, religious salt into a wound... 

As he was dragged roughly to his feet, Lord Francis worked his mouth, and gathered enough moisture to scream shrilly, ''I'll have Inishowen someday, Cathelin! And revenge! REMEMBER, Blacksunne! I will have my revenge!'' 

Cathelin shook her head as Francis was literally carried away; his hysterical screams and threats echoed along the stone corridors of the castle. When they finally died down, she motioned over a silent guardsman and said, ''I'm going up to the master's chambers. Send a servant with wine and have my squire fetched. I'll also want a bath; tell the cooks to start heating water.'' 

The man tugged his forelock respectfully.. ''Aye, m'lady,'' he replied before sprinting off.. 

Cathelin sighed wearily, shoulders slumping for a moment. The battle had been won; the dead dragged away for burial, and the injured sent to the abbey a little ways apart from the village that nestled at the foot of the castle mount. Now, she could rest... Until her seneschel had time to look at Inishowen's accounts and bespeak her the damage done to the castle's stores of goods and gold by that son-of-a-soul-crippled-sow the Good Lord had seen fit to inflict upon her as a blood relation. 

She straightened up and began making her way to the stone staircase that spiraled up to her bedchamber, mentally making lists... and wondering if the contents of the iron bound casket she had brought home from the siege of Acre would provide enough to outlast a harsh Irish winter.

CHAPTER TWO

Much later, soaking in hot, herb-strewn water, Cathelin rubbed her aching shoulder and wished she hadn't sent her squire Thomas down to his supper. 

The tub she soaked in was a huge wine cask that had been sawn in half; it was perfect for one, and even someone of Cathelin's more-than-ordinary height fitted comfortably inside. The water steamed gently, and despite the raw place on her hip where the padding beneath her armor had slipped, and bruises covering her from crown to heel, Cathelin relaxed for the first time since she'd come home from the Crusades in Saracen Outremer... only to find her family seat usurped by Lord Francis, her father cold this last twelve-month, and (fortunately for her), vengeful allies on every hand, eager to help bring down Westfield. 

Aye, she thought, poor Francis. The boy would go and insult every neighboring laird within miles with his nose-in-the-air, wipe-my-arse Sassenach ways. Luckily, those same neighbors had been willing to stand and fight with her for revenge's sake rather than concessions like cattle or sheep, neither of which could be spared if her people were to survive. 

She closed her eyes and lay her head back against the edge of the tub, strands of crimson hair billowing around her like exotic water weeds, and relaxed... until her trained ear picked up a sound that should NOT have been there - the sound of another person's breathing. 

Cathelin's amber eyes popped open, and she leaped from the tub in one smooth motion, suppressing a wince as sore muscles protested. ''Who's there?'' she asked warily, her body in a half crouch. ''Show yourself.'' 

Only a whimper answered her. 

Head cocked to one side and dripping water, Cathelin slowly approached a corner of the room that occupied fully one-half of the western tower's third floor. She was prepared for anything - except the sight that came into view as she cautiously peered around the high canopied bed. 

A woman knelt on the stone floor. Mother naked save for the wealth of fine, blue-black hair that puddled on the floor around her, all tangled and elf-locked from miscare. A woman whose enormous dark purple eyes were red with tears, her sweetly rounded face slick with moisture. A woman who shivered, but not with cold... with absolute, soul-killing fear. 

With a start, Cathelin realized that the woman was manacled; heavy iron chains led from the cuffs on both wrists and ankles and fastened to one leg of the bed. She straightened up and the woman whimpered again, bowing until her face was pressed against the floor. 

''Christus! Who are you?'' Cathelin didn't mean to sound harsh, but the presence of another when she'd thought she'd been alone startled her. 

The woman shook with terror. ''M-m-madrigal, mistress,'' she half-whispered. 

Madrigal was nearly frozen with shock and fear. She had seen the other woman come into the bedroom as if she owned it. The slave had kept quiet, hoping that this woman with hair like the setting sun would ignore her; she would have crept away, silent enough not to be noticed, but for the iron bonds that kept her chained in place. 

She must be Blacksunne's leman, Madrigal thought, then with further horror remembered every tale of Lord Francis' regarding the knight's sadism and cruelty. His woman must be as terrible as himself! The slave trembled, wondering what fresh horrors awaited her. 

Cathelin was non-plussed. There had been no such servant at Inishowen when she'd left. ''Speak up, woman. What are you doing here?'' For a moment, she wondered wildly if one of her men had intended this as a jape, then dismissed the thought. Although her preference for the female sex was known, none of her men would have so presumed on their lady commander's legendary temper. 

Madrigal trembled some more. Keeping her face to the floor as she had been taught, she replied, ''I... I was the Lord's bedslave, if it please my mistress.'' 

Comprehension dawned on Cathelin's face. She knelt down, a careful arms-length from the other woman. ''A slave, eh? From where?'' 

''Palestine, mistress. But I was born in Bactria.'' 

Cathelin put out a hand and cupped Madrigal's chin, forcing the other woman's face up so that dark purple eyes met amber gold. ''I keep no slaves,'' she replied flatly. Cathelin had seen too much during the destruction of Acre, things that still filled her nights with terrible dreams and visions of death and blood and screams. She needed no Saracen slaves to remind her of a time best forgotten. 

Madrigal said nothing, although her eyes filled with tears again. Silently, she whispered to her unborn child - I am sorry, little one. Perhaps Allah will grant His mercy on us both, and our deaths will be merciful and swift. 

The slave believed the sun-fire woman intended to kill her, and part of her welcomed the freedom of death. She lowered her eyes and waited calmly for the end, finding from some unknown depths the strength to accept the inevitability of her ending... and the courage not to beg. 

Cathelin saw emotions flooding across the slave girl's face: fear, regret, then... acceptance. With a pang, she abruptly realized that the other woman expected to be butchered, in cold blood, as if she were some sort of... animal... Cathelin wrenched her eyes away, breathing heavily. 

They sat there for some time, the slave waiting patiently, the Irishwoman blinking back tears of her own. Finally, Cathelin rasped, ''Where did he keep the key?'' 

Madrigal blinked, startled from her thoughts. ''I...,'' she began, then stopped. Tears spilled down her face as a tiny shred of hope blossomed. ''The master kept it in there,'' she said at last, pointing to a small, decorative box with ivory inlay that sat on a  table. 

Cathelin stood up and for the first time, Madrigal realized how magnificent this woman was, like a warrior out of legend. Broad shoulders, smoothly rounded bulges in the arms, thighs as firm as tree trunks. The slave blinked again as Cathelin stalked away; momentarily fascinated, despite herself, by the play of muscles in the Irishwoman's buttocks. 

Returning in a moment, Cathelin unlocked the cuffs, flinging them away as if they were trash. Muscles writhed beneath the skin along her jaw as she took in the raw, bloody places on the slave's wrists and ankles - and saw for the first time the marks of the lash, some of them still oozing, that criss-crossed Madrigal's back. 

Madrigal had stayed absolutely still while she was being freed; the moment Cathelin finished unlocking the cuffs, she prostrated herself, laying her face on the Irishwoman's bare foot and kissing it. 

Had she seen the look of total disgust on Cathelin's face, Madrigal might have died of sheer fright. As it was, she flinched when the other woman said in a hard tone, ''Get up.'' 

The slave tried to obey, but long hours kneeling on the cold stone floors had left her too stiff. She struggled to rise but nearly fell over. Crying out, Madrigal instinctively tried to protect her stomach and its precious burden, when strong arms reached out and caught her. 

Cathelin grimaced, then with a grunt lfted the astonished slave into her arms and laid her carefully on the bed. Madrigal tried not to cry when the wolfskin covering rubbed against the still tender flesh of her back, although she did let out a gasp.. 

''Stay there,'' Cathelin commanded, then crossed to the door. Flinging it wide, she declared loudly, ''Ho! A servant for your lady!'' Running footsteps echoed as a maidservant pelted along the corridor. 

Reaching the door, the maid curtseyed and said breathlessly, ''Mistress? You called?'' 

Cathelin waved a hand. ''Have warm water, clean linen rags and my saddlebags brought up. Also, more wine and food.'' 

The maid curtseyed again, then turned around and ran back down the corridor. The Irish were casual about nudity and had little body modestly; the maid no more noticed her mistress' undressed state than she would a child's. 

Cathelin closed the door and turned back to the figure on the bed. ''Roll over,'' she said shortly. 

Madrigal obeyed, inwardly terrified. Thus far, the sun-fire woman had offered her no hurt, but that command usually meant a beating. ''Please, mistress,'' she said, her voice muffled against the bed furs, ''have mercy. I am...,'' but she was interrupted. 

''I'm not about to beat you, girl. Just lie still; I need to see to your hurts.'' Cathelin was more than a little exasperated and ran her hands through her still dripping hair. With a curse, she snatched up a linen sheet and began to dry herself, mentally thanking God and St. Brigit that it was high summer and the castle fairly warm. 

Madrigal lay still, fearing to move, as Cathelin quickly tugged on a pair of breeches and a linen shirt that had seen better days. A discreet scratching at the door signaled the return of the maid, who entered with several other servants at her heels. 

No one lifted a brow at the naked Madrigal's presence on the bed; what their mistress chose to do with Lord Francis' property was none of their concern, although most of them felt sorry for the girl. Silently, a table was pulled over; a wooden bowl of steaming water, clean rags, and a tray containing a flask of wine and a plate of food were left beside the bed. Cathelin's leather saddlebags, retrieved from the stables, were left as well. As silently as they had trooped in, the servants departed, leaving the two women alone. 

Madrigal hissed softly through her teeth, fiery threads of pain lancing through her back as the other woman gently bathed it. The wolfskin coverlet beneath her was liberally bedewed with tears by the time Cathelin had cleaned the cuts to her satisfaction; then, the Irishwoman began tenderly washing the slave's wrists and ankles. 

Cathelin noticed much older scars on the slave's back, scars that had had time to turn silvery with age. Her amber eyes glowed with rage. Slavery was anathema to her; she had seen barely pubescent girls sold in the public markets of Antioch to white-bearded lechers, and she had personally witnessed the fate of harem girls at their master's hands. Irizin, she thought with a pang, then brutally put that memory aside. That was then; this is now.

Despite her anger, her hands were gentle as she removed a jar of green, fresh-scented cream from her saddlebags and began to slather it on the cuts. Madrigal hissed again, this time in relief. The cream was cool, almost icy, and took much of the pain away. 

Finally, Cathelin tied strips of linen around the slave's wrists and ankles, then stood up. She walked over to a massive oak chest and threw the lid open. Rummaging around inside, she finally came up with an old linen nightshirt, thin and threadbare with age. 

Without a word, Cathelin helped Madrigal turn over and sit up, then pulled the nightshirt over the other woman's head. Madrigal swallowed. There was something she wanted to ask, but the stony look on Cathelin's face made her afraid. At last, gathering her courage, the slave said, ''Mistress? Will I be required to serve Lord Blacksunne tonight?'' 

Cathelin's lips tightened. ''I am Lord Blacksunne.'' 

CHAPTER THREE

Madrigal's eyes glazed and she struggled for breath, heart beating against her chest like a caged bird. ''I... I...,'' she stuttered, then scrambled to her knees, ignoring the burning of cuts being reopened. 

Laying herself face down before Cathelin, she managed to get out, ''Please forgive this stupid slave, mistress.'' She didn't know what to think about this revelation but she was certain it boded ill for her and the unborn child she carried. 

Cathelin's dark red hair was dry; it curled down her back like a raging cataract of flame. Rolling her eyes, the Irishwoman said, ''I thought I told you I don't keep slaves. Get up girl, before you do yourself more harm.'' 

Shaking with fear, Madrigal sat up. She kept her eyes lowered; in Palestine, a slave who presumed to stare into a master's eyes could be whipped to death. ''Forgive me, mistress. I beg you.'' It was all she could say as visions of torture, rape and mutilation spun through her head in rapid succession. 

''I am NOT your mistress! Nor yet your master!'' Cathelin was frustrated, upset and beginning to get angry. ''There are no slaves at Inishowen, and I'd not give a tarnished copper what that bastard Francis told you. He is gone; you have no master save yourself. Now stop all that bowing and scraping, girl. I don't like it and I won't have it.'' 

Madrigal whispered, ''As you command, mis...'' She broke off, not willing to offend this half man-half woman creature. Surely, the slave thought, trembling in every limb, this Blacksunne must be a djinn or a servant of Shaitan. No woman could wield weapons on the field of battle, and no man would allow one to command him. 

Cathelin sighed and ran her hands through her hair again. ''Call me by my name, child. Cathelin. You can say Cathelin, can you not? Or call me Lady, if it pleases you more.'' 

Hesitantly, Madrigal said, ''Cathelin.'' Her slight accent gave the Irishwoman's name an exotic quality. ''My Lady.'' This attempt was much firmer; the slave felt odd calling her mistress by her given name, and was more comfortable with an honorific. 

''Good.'' Cathelin smiled. ''Now, why don't you try and eat something.'' She indicated the plate of food. ''But don't drink too much wine. You don't want a thick head tomorrow.'' 

Madrigal reached for the plate, feeling as if she were in a dream. As Cathelin walked over to the fireplace to sit down and stretch her long legs out on the cold hearth, the slave began to eat, scooping up the cold beef and juicy summer greens with her fingers, and was astonished to find herself scraping the plate with a crust of bread in very little time. 

Cathelin chuckled. ''You've a hearty appetite for such a wee thing,'' she said. ''Now, get you some sleep. Aye, sleep, Madrigal,'' she added as the other woman's eyes widened. ''I know 'tis but a few hours past the nooning, but from the look of things, you're fair knackered.'' 

Madrigal put the plate down and obediently curled up on her side, legs tucked up. She closed her eyes, but she could not sleep; she dreaded what the sun-fire woman might do. 

Lord Francis had amused himself by spinning tales of Blacksunne the tormentor; Blacksunne the monster; Blacksunne, who lived and breathed only to subject young women to unimaginable tortures. Madrigal's fear was so great it was nearly paralyzing; that fear only increased when Cathelin crossed over to the bed and with a weary sigh, lay down, rubbing her temples. 

''I think I'll take a bit of my own advice,'' Cathelin said softly. ''I'm mortal weary after such a day. Nay, girl,'' she added as Madrigal made to get off the bed, ''Stay. We'll find another place for you later.'' 

When Madrigal lay back down again, Cathelin relaxed and slipped into a light, restful sleep. Her warrior's trained senses were still on alert; she'd wake up immediately if there was an emergency or if someone attacked. The thought that Madrigal might be hostile she dismissed; the girl was unarmed and seemed too cowed to take foolish risks. 

After a time, the regular rhythm of Cathelin's breathing convinced the slave that the other woman was truly asleep. Madrigal leaned up on an elbow, the better to study her new mistresses' face. 

Cathelin was not classically beautiful; her nose had been broken more than once and was slightly askew. Her cheekbones stood out like ivory spars beneath skin that bore a light touch of the sun; elsewhere, Madrigal remembered, her skin had the color and sheen of fine cream. 

A small scar marred the underside of her chin; another scar, this one as jagged as a lighning bolt, ran from her right temple, through her hair and around the back of her ear. Madrigal noticed that Cathelin's ears had been pierced and was not surprised; the people of Ireland were fond of personal adornment. 

There were other scars, of course. Tentatively, Madrigal traced a long, curving scar on Cathelin's forearm, marveling, despite her lingering fear, at the texture of the other woman's skin. 

Around Cathelin's upper arm, Madrigal remembered, had been a dark blue band, like a wide cuff of twisting snakes within a braided border. It was done using the sacred woad; the slave had been shocked to discover that the marking were permanent, the pigment driven beneath the skin in an incredibly painful ordeal that was sometimes considered a rite of passage. Ireland might have been a Christian nation, but old pagan customs still clung despite the Church's best efforts. This was astonishing to Madrigal, who had been raised in the faith of Islam. 

Madrigal's heart almost stopped when Cathelin's eyes opened. Those fierce amber orbs held a shimmering fire that both fascinated and frightened the slave. ''I thought I told you to get some sleep, girl,'' Cathelin growled, but with a wide smile. ''And stop staring at me like a goose- wit. Has the tip of my nose turned green?'' 

Madrigal shook her head frantically and lay down, cradling her head on her folded arms and closing her eyes. Perhaps Allah has shown us mercy, little one, she thought to her unborn child. Perhaps the lady is not as terrible as the lord told me. A very small part of her began to trust the other woman... a little. But her natural suspicions were still very much alive. 

Eventually, Madrigal fell asleep, her dreams filled with fire, thunder... and the memory of Cathelin's smile. 

''WHAT!!!'' 

Cathelin's roar of rage startled Madrigal awake; it was early the next morning - she had slept through the day and night together, exhausted both by pain and the emotional upheaval she had experienced yesterday. For a moment, she lay perfectly still, although her heart pounded. Then Madrigal realized that her Lady's anger was not directed at her at all, but towards the man she knew as Michael Drury, the castle's seneshal. 

Drury was not a small man; in fact, he was as tall as the lady herself - but in her larger-than-life presence, he seemed diminished. He held his loaf-shaped hat in his hands and twisted it with nervous fingers. ''Please, milady,'' he said, reaching up to pluck at his mustache. ''There was nothing we could do. The old lord was dead, beggin' your pardon, may he rest in peace. Lord Francis claimed Inishowen in your absence. There were no other heirs to contest his claim.'' 

''And so you allowed that worm to eat my father's food, slay my father's cattle, and spend my father's gold as if there were no tomorrow? By God, man! Did you not think of the people who depend on us, on Inishowen, to survive the winter? Or perhaps you believed the Good Lord would rain snow less harshly upon your heads since otherwise you'd starve?! Feh!'' Cathelin was seething; she'd summoned Drury to bring the castle's accounts, and the news was not good. 

St. Brigit! she thought angrily. In a year's time, Francis managed to run through every bit of Inishowen's wealth and stock; gold doesn't stick to his fingers - it runs through like shit through a goose. 

Cathelin plopped herself down in a chair and picked up the massive accounts book, waving it beneath Drury's nose like a weapon. ''Why'd you not slit his weasel's throat while he was swiving some wench? Our neighbor folk would not only have thanked you with hosannas, they'd have helped you bury the bastard!'' 

Drury gulped. He wasn't sure how to respond. The truth of the matter was, despite the fact the castle people were all loyal to the O'Camerons, being left without a lord in residence had made them nervous and uncomfortable. To the majority, a bad master was better than no master at all. 

Cathelin sighed. She hadn't really expected an answer; loyalty was all well and good, but the castle's people depended on a lord to survive. Without, they'd have been prey to every jumped-up baron with a court connection, looking to acquire Inishowen's lands. ''All right, then. Pack your saddlebags, Michael. You're going to Cork.'' 

Drury stuttered, ''C-C-Cork? Oh, milady, please don't turn me out! Please...'' The big man seemed on the verge of tears. 

''I'm not turning anyone out, you quake-buttocked fool! I brought some treasures back from Outremer - jewels and such like. You're to go to the Jeweler's Guild and the Goldsmith's and get every copper groat you can, then stock up on supplies. We'll need anything and everything come wintertime.'' 

Drury's weathered face filled with relief. ''Yes, milady,'' he said, bowing his head. 

''Ttake a list of foodstuffs, woolens and the like. Whatever we need. I trust you'll bargain well, since your family, as well as everyone else's, will suffer if you don't.'' 

''Yes, milady.'' 

''And Michael?'' Cathelin's voice was a dangerous purr. 

Drury gulped. ''Yes, milady?'' 

''Don't forget the wine.'' 

Drury nodded in relief and turned to go, knowing a dismissal when he heard one. 

As the door closed behind the seneshal, Cathelin rubbed one hand on her crimson hair and sighed. And I truly believed retaking the castle would be the hardest part, she thought ruefully. 

The Irishwoman caught sight of Madrigal prone figure on the bed and noted that the slave's eyes were open. 

''So you're awake, eh?'' Cathelin said. ''Are your wounds paining you?'' 

Silently, Madrigal shook her head. Cathelin stood up and thumped the book back down on the table. Crossing to the bed, Cathelin sat on the edge, noticing the other woman's barely preceptible flinch. 

''Softly, girl. I'm not going to hurt you. I just want a look at your back.'' Cathelin reached out and carefully peeled the nightshirt up, seeing with satisfaction that the cream had kept the linen from sticking to the wounds. 

The lash marks seemed less inflamed already. Cathelin nodded with satisfaction. ''Well, I think you'll survive. That cream's a marvel, I tell you. Bought it from a healer in Antioch. Many's the man I've seen die of wound rot; but this stuff prevents it. I paid a king's ransom for the secret of its making, too.'' 

Madrigal wasn't sure how to respond, so she settled for whispering, ''Yes, Lady.'' 

''You'll be up and about in no time, you'll see. But you can't run around the castle in a nightshirt. Have you no proper clothes?'' 

Madrigal's deep purple eyes filled with tears. ''The lord did not see fit to give me any. He preferred me...'' She stopped and spread her hands apart helplessly. 

Cathelin's nostrils flared with anger. Francis, you've a great deal to pay for, she thought, and I wish to God I'd extracted every pound of flesh you owed. Despite her anger, she smiled slightly for the girl's sake. ''Well, that will not do. I suspected you had little, but... My sister Marguessan, may God rest her soul, was about your size. I've asked the Wardrobe Mistress to bring you a selection, and what you like, you can keep.'' 

Madrigal was frankly astonished. The notion of anyone giving a slave a choice was beyond comprehension; but she kept silent with the stoic resignation of someone who has no will of their own, save their master's. 

Cathelin said gently, ''Have you no questions? You seemed mortal surprised that Blacksunne and myself are one and the same.'' 

Madrigal said softly, ''What you wish me to know you will tell me.'' 

The Irishwoman snorted. She'd bound her dark crimson hair into two braids that swung on either side of her face; the waist length plaits were fastened at the ends with wrapped leather thongs. '''Madri,'' she said, ''if you wish to know more of me, of my life - you must ask.'' Her amber eyes twinkled. ''I know you've a tongue in your head, lass. Use it.'' 

For a moment, the slave was lost in thought. Cathelin swung her long legs up on the bed and reclined on one elbow, watching the other woman's face intently. 

After a while, Madrigal asked hesitantly, ''How did it come to pass that you are the Blacksunne?'' 

Cathelin blew out a breath. ''A long tale, Madri. But suffice to say, my mother, Lady Ydris O'Cameron, married Sir Giles Forthwright, an English knight. Ah, they were very much in love,'' she mused. ''Soon after their marriage, I came along, then my sister Marguessen - she died of a fever when I was seventeen - and then no more. My father desperately wanted a son, but God chose not to grant him his dearest wish. 

''After mother died, he fell into despair; he truly loved no other woman, and would not sully Ydris' memory with another marriage. So, he decided that if the Good Lord would not give him a son, he would make one.'' 

Cathelin stopped, momentarily caught by the memory of her father's strong arm guiding her own, his hand atop hers as she wielded her first sword against the pells. Swallowing, she continued, ''I trained for years, but not the normal girl's pursuits. T'was the arts of war I learned, and there was no better teacher than my father. To our mutual surprise, I think, I proved to have a talent for it.'' 

During the Irishwoman's recital, Madrigal has listened carefully, not only with her ears but with her soul, trying to find the tiniest lie, the slightest hint of falsity - but to her surprise, found none. 

Cathelin continued, ''My ancestors founded this village two centuries ago, fleeing enemies in Scotland, and the O'Camerons have lived and died here since. But I was restless, and as some would have it, reckless. I left for the Holy Land five years ago, joining the crusade against the infidel under the banner of King Richard, a childhood friend of father's. Of course, the King had no idea I was a woman, and neither did his men. My own kerns knew, but were sworn to silence on the matter.'' 

The Irishwoman chuckled, recalling the priceless look on the King's handsome face when he'd discovered her not to be a comely lad, as he'd thought, but a lass full grown. Aye, she thought, he'd come to my tent that night for a bit o' seduction, and ended up playing draughts with me until dawn. Despite the earlier embarassment, the two had grown close. 

'''T'was Richard himself who knighted me, giving me spurs with his own hand. He also gave me the title Blacksunne, deeming it best that few as possible know a woman fought within the black armor. Little did I know that minstrels were already composing songs about Blacksunne - it was mortal embarrasin' to climb off the boat in Calais and find that the deeds of Cathelin O'Cameron had been credited to a mysterious knight of unspeakable bravery and fame. 

''It's quite a riddle. In my own country, and to my own men, I am now and forever will be Lady Cathelin O'Cameron of Inishowen; but to the English, I am Lord Blacksunne. Two persons in one body - you'd think it would get a wee bit crowded, would you not?'' Cathelin chuckled. ''And that is the end of my tale, Madri. P'raps you've one of your own you like to share?,'' Cathelin concluded, cocking her head to one side and staring at Madrigal expectantly. 

While her Lady had spoken, Madrigal came to the conclusion that it had been her former master who lied. After all, she thought, the Lady has not offered me any hurt, she has fed me and tended my wounds, and certainly her people have respect for her. As a slave, Madrigal was intimately acquainted with the difference between fear and respect. 

It was with something approaching relief that the slave surrendered the worst of her fears, and began to believe, for the first time, that she might survive this experience after all. 

Clearing her throat, Madrigal said, ''What is this 'Madri' you call me? Is that to be my new name?'' 

Cathelin's amber eyes widened. ''No, no, I will call you what you wish. 'Madri' is but a small-name... an endearment, of sorts.'' 

''Ah.'' Madrigal had finished considering; now, she thought, it is time to act. The woman sat up, gracefully kneeling on the bed, her hands clasped together in her lap. The glory of her blue-black hair spilled like a waterfall of dark indigo around her. ''Please forgive me, Lady, but a slave has no past worthy of interest.'' 

The Irishwoman's golden amber eyes flashed with barely suppressed anger. ''I told you, you are NOT a slave!'' she began hotly, but was silenced when Madrigal raised a slender hand. 

''Forgive me, Lady, but I am a slave. I have known nothing else most of my life. Although you have removed my bonds, I am, nevertheless, your property.'' 

Cathelin blinked, dumbfounded. ''B-b-but,'' she stuttered, but again was, with exquisite politeness, interrupted. 

''You own this castle, do you not?'' Madrigal asked. When Cathelin nodded, the slave continued, ''And you own all the property within? I am a slave; I was purchased by the Lord Francis and now, like the castle itself, I belong to you. There is nothing else.There can be nothing else. That is the way of the world, and all is as Allah wills.'' 

Cathelin thought furiously. It was becoming obvious that nothing she could say was going to convince the other woman that she was free. Finally, the Irishwoman gave up. ''Very well, tho' you've a stubborn streak in you I've rarely seen in mules, much less lasses. If you insist you are a slave, I'll  argue no more. Of servants I have plenty; what skills have you to earn your keep? I can keep no idle hands about; we'll have a hard enough passage through winter as it is.'' 

Madrigal was not modest about her accomplishments; they'd cost her much in time, and sometimes pain. ''I can play many instruments, and my masters have told me I have a good singing voice. I have made paper, dyes and inks; I can weave, sew and embroider. I have been taught to cook, bargain at the marketplace, and I know many amusing tales and poems to entertain you. I am also...,'' and she hesitated, then continued bravely, ''highly skilled in the arts of love.'' 

''What?!'' 

Madrigal gave the astonished Irishwoman a shy look. ''When I blossomed, I was sold to a harem-master in Palestine. I was given a pleasure girl's training; some of my teachers had been great beauties in their time, and I learned much. Lord Francis praised my skills highly.'' When he was not beating me for failing to rouse him, she added silently, but that was as Allah willed. 

Cathelin swallowed, overcome for a moment by the memory of another harem girl... Irizin, whom she had met at the village well, so long ago in the Eastern lands. Irizin, whose dark eyes had flashed with promise and more above the veil that swathed her unbelievably beautiful features. Irizin, whose master had left her broken and bleeding body in the Irishwoman's tent when he'd discovered his concubine's infidelity. 

Madrigal waited patiently, although inwardly she cringed at the haunted look on the Lady's face. She hoped she had not been too forward; some of her worst whippings had been because she'd overstepped the bounds of propriety between master and slave. 

Finally, Cathelin spoke slowly, ''So... it seems to me a shame to waste such talent in the kitchen, or in the laundry, or about the common household. At the moment, I  have no servant to tend to my personal needs; if you are willing, Madri, I would have you tend my wardrobe, and see to other such things.'' I cannot turn the poor weevil out, she thought. She'd starve inside of a week. A tiny corner of her mind was incredibly curious about just how skilled her new servant was... and Cathelin ruthlessly suppressed that thought. 

Madrigal drew a deep breath and bowed from the waist until her forehead touched the coverlet. ''As my Lady commands,'' she said calmly; inside, she nearly wept with relief. 

The Irishwoman smiled slightly. P'raps one day she'll realize she's free to do as she pleases, but in the meantime... Aloud, she said, ''All right, girl. Enough of that. Have you anything else to tell me?'' 

The slave straightened. Although she could barely remember, she had once been a soldier's daughter; one of her father's favorite sayings had been, 'As well be hung for a sheep as a lamb'... Now, she gathered her courage together; her pregnancy would be the most difficult thing to confess. ''My Lady,'' Madrigal began... 

But was interrupted by a small, furious, female form that burst through the chamber door like a whirlwind.

CHAPTER FOUR

Sorcha O'Reilly stood framed within the doorway, green eyes snapping with indignant sparks. ''Well?'' she demanded outrageously. ''P'raps you'd care to explain why Michael Drury is down in my kitchen, pokin' about the stores and askin' questions of my folk that he has no business doin'?'' 

Madrigal flinched, expecting an explosion. But to her surprise, Cathelin laughed at the other woman's effrontery. ''Ah, Sorcha,'' she said to the infuriated blonde, ''gracious as always. Glad I am to know that despite advancing years, my memory is as keen as ever.'' 

Sorcha ignored Cathelin's sally. ''I am the chatelaine here, Cat. Appointed by your father of blessed memory, in case you've fogotten. Unless you intend to give Michael Drury the keys, then I'm tellin' you to order him to keep his long nose away from my duties and stick to his own business.'' 

Now Catheline frowned. As willing as she was to accomodate Sorcha's moods, this discourtesy was beginning to irritate her. ''As far as Drury, you may rest contented knowing that he does no more than my will, nor less besides.'' 

Madrigal watched this sparring in wide-eyed wonder. Sorcha, the slave knew well. Sir Francis had encouraged the chatelaine's subtle and not-so-subtle abuses; Madrigal also knew that the blonde woman and her former lord had been secretly betrothed. She wondered if her Lady knew of this, and decided that she did not. Nor will I reveal the tidings, Madrigal thought, suppressing a shudder. My Lady may not be as savage as I first thought, but surely she would strike down the bearer of such ill news... 

Meanwhile, Cathelin had risen from the bed, nostrils pinched white in anger, in response to Sorcha's shrill rantings. ''You may be distant kin of mine, Sorcha O'Reilly,'' she rasped, ''but by St. Brigit! You will NOT dictate to me what I may and may not do in my own household!'' 

Sorcha stumbled back, face pale. Cathelin's eyes were brighter than molten gold with fury; Sorcha dared not defy the mistress of Inishowen any longer. But some day, the blonde chatelaine thought sullenly, when I am wed to Lord Francis, it will be she who dares not try my wrath. 

Sorcha swallowed her pride and said humbly, ''Forgive me, Cat. I've overstepped myself. Of course, if Michael Drury is actin' on your own orders, I'll give no more protest.'' 

Cathelin snorted, anger subsiding. ''You're forgiven, Sorcha. Have a tray sent up for Madrigal; no doubt she's perishin' hungry. And tell the hetman, Fergus Niall, to come up from the village. I need to speak to him about the harvest.'' 

Sorcha threw a scathing, hate-filled glance at the figure of Madrigal on the bed behind Cathelin. Not a few of the whip-marks on the girl's back had been made by the chatelaine; in truth, she had enjoyed it mildly, but had been mostly content to leave the chit be. But for a slave to have witnessed her humiliation! - Sorcha bowed her head in acknowledgement of Cathelin's dismissal, and inwardly vowed to be revenged on Madrigal, any way she could. 

Cathelin sighed as Sorcha left, and walked over to the clothes chest, selecting a dark red tunic, gorgeously embroidered along the sides, cuffs and neckline with black and gold oak leaves, and a pair of knitted black hose. She turned to Madrigal. ''There's a tear in the seam, here,'' the Irishwoman said, pointing to one side of the tunic, ''Do you think you feel well enough to fix it for me?'' 

Madrigal smiled and sat up, brushing her blue-black hair away from her face. ''Of course, Lady,'' she answered. ''I feel much better today.'' 

While Cathelin waited, Madrigal carefully sewed up the torn seam, taking impossibly tiny stitches that could barely be detected with the naked eye. It was only a matter of moments before the tunis was as good as new. 

Cathelin observed all this in wonder. She herself had never mastered the art of needle and thread; in Outremer, her squire Thomas had taken care of her clothes. ''Marvelous!'' she breathed, turning the tunic over in her hands - the damage could not be detected now. ''You've a fine light touch, Madri.'' 

The slave blushed slightly and returned the precious steel needle to its ivory case, then tucked it back inside the small wooden sewing box, shaped like an acorn with a tight fitting lid. Madrigal slid off the bed and padded over to Cathelin. For the first time, the Irishwoman realized how tiny the former slave was; the top of her head barely came to the level of her own breasts. 

''Please, allow me,'' Madrigal said politely but firmly, taking the mended tunic from Cathelin's hands and laying it carefully aside on the bed. The Muslim girl quaked at her temerity, but if she was to be the Lady's servant, she would perform her duties to the best of her ability. 

While Cathelin struggled to hide her amusement, Madrigal removed the taller woman's old linen shirt and battered trousers, and helped her don the thigh-length tunic and hose, carefully pulling up the latter to avoid baggy knees and tying the leather laces tightly enough around Cathelin's upper thighs to keep the hose in place, but not so tight as to impair circulation. Finally, she took a clean loincloth from the clothes chest and fastened it around Cathelin's hips. 

As she drew one end of the long cloth between Cathelin's legs, Madrigal was acutely aware that her face was only inches away from the flaming thatch that crowned the other woman's mount. She averted her eyes as she tucked the free end back into the wrapped waist and pulled it tight; the sight of those softly curling locks, as ruddy as the hair on the Lady's head, caused strange stirrings in her lower belly that made Madrigal flush slightly. 

Madrigal looked up into Cathelin's amber eyes and asked, ''What footwear does the Lady desire?'' 

Cathelin bit her lip to hide a smile. I've not been waited on so since I was a wee child, she thought. I could grow to enjoy this. Aloud, Cathelin said, ''The brown boots, if you please.'' 

Madrigal retrieved a pair of knee-high leather boots from an iron-bound oak chest, then knelt gracefully at Cathelin's feet. ''If my Lady will permit...?'' 

Cathelin sat down on the edge of the bed and allowed the dark Muslim beauty to draw on her boots. Then the Irishwoman stood up and stomped a few times, settling her feet. 

A discreet scratching came from the door; a few seconds later, it was opened by a stout, florid faced woman with iron-gray hair and dark blue eyes that twinkled merrily. '''T'is only myself, Lady,'' she said, sweeping into the chamber with several dresses flung over one arm. ''I've brought you the things you asked.'' 

Cathelin gave the older woman a brilliant smile. Meagan MacAvera, the Mistress of Wardrobe, was one of her favorite people. Mistress Meagan had been serving Inishowen since before Cathelin had been born; her duties were to see to all household linens and woolens, and included supervising the yearly weaving and dyeing, as well as overseeing the creation, maintenance and management of clothing worn by all of Inishowen's people.She'd also acted as a second mother after the death of Ydris, and had been a vast source of comfort after the death of Cathelin's sister, Marguessen.. 

''Come in, Mistress,'' Cathelin said warmly. ''T'is grand to see you again.'' 

Mistress Meagan laughed heartily. ''Aye, and grand it is to see you as well, colleen! Well, then, here's the dresses you asked for; are they for wee Madrigal?'' 

Madrigal smiled tentatively at Meagan and rose from her kneeling position. She, too, felt the Wardrobe Mistress to be a friend; the cheerful Scottish woman had always had a kind word for the slave. 

''Yes,'' Catheline replied, ''I thought she and Marguessen might be of a like enough size, and I've since learned the girl has nothing of her own.'' 

Mistress Meagan raised one brow but forbear to comment. In her own mind, she had deplored the usuping Francis' use of the Muslim slave, and only her strong committment to the O'Cameron family had kept her from leaving. ''I think you've the right of it, lass,'' she said to Cathelin. ''Come here, Madrigal, there's a good girl. Try this one on; I think it will suit you nicely.'' 

Madrigal shyly took the dress from Meagan's hand; it was linen, floor length and dyed a rich blue. Though simple, the dress had an embroidered cloth belt that could be tied around waist or hips, and the tasseled ends dangled nearly to the floor. Madrigal had never had such a fine dress before and she was close to tears. 

''Well?'' Cathelin said. ''Are you trying it on or standing there all amort 'till sundown?'' A generous smile took the sting out of her words. 

Madrigal stripped off her nightshirt, wincing slightly as the wounds on her back were stretched; fortunately, there was no tearing. She slipped the dress over her head and swiftly tied the belt around her hips, pushing the length of her blue-black hair out of the way. The sleeves were a little long, but otherwise, it was a perfect fit. 

Meagan said, ''That's fine, just fine! I'll have Tom Cobbler make up some shoes for you. I think we've nothin' that would suit in the stores, save perhaps some slippers for indoors.'' 

Cathelin nodded. ''Attend to it, Meagan, and soonest.'' She reached out one hand and grasped Madrigal's shoulder gently. ''Let me see,'' she said. 

The Irishwoman carefully spun Madrigal around and caught her breath at the depth of the other woman's beauty. She'll be driving the lads insane before too long, Cathelin thought, or the lassies. 

There were a few women (and men) in the ranks of the warriors and craftspeople who served the Lady that were of her own mind - they preferred their own sex, and despite the Church's official ban on such things, marriages and bondings still took place as usual. The parish priests turned a blind eye, knowing that in some things, it was best to let the people do as they wished, and add some extra penances or prayers. The Church's hold on the Irish was not as firm as the bishops wished; the Celts had a way of borrowing what they liked, changing what they didn't, and throwing out the rest with a casual shrug. 

''Very nice. Still, it needs something,'' Cathelin murmured. She went over to a small, pearl studded box that stood on a table and opened it, stirring the contents around with one finger. Finally, she came back with something glittering between her two hands. 

It was a light silver chain, the links as delicate as woven cobwebs. Dangling from the chain was a purplish-red agate that had been carved in the shape of a phoenix - the crest of Sir Giles Forthwright's family. Cathelin placed it carefully over Madrigal's head, pulling her loose hair out of the way, and adjusted the lay of the agate charm against the Muslim's bosom. 

''There,'' the Irishwoman said in satisfaction, while Meagan beamed. ''I think that much better, myself. Keep it, Madri, as a welcome gift; you're one of my people now, and deserving of much better than you've gotten before.'' 

Madrigal laid a hand on the charm - and began to cry softly. The dress, her new status in the household, and now this gift... she could not help but cry. For so many years she had dwelled in a place of utter loneliness, where no one cared whether she lived or died; where no man or woman would have lifted a finger to help her; where her worth was valued, not as a human being, but as property. To know that the Lady felt that she belonged, truly belonged to her own tight- knit clan, was more than Madrigal could bear. Hot tears coursed down her face and she bit back a sob. 

Instantly, she was swept into strong arms... Arms that had the potential to kill, and had often done so, but at this moment were as gentle as a mother lioness with her cub. ''Shhhhh,'' Cathelin crooned, pressing Madrigal's wet face into her chest, braids tickling the other woman's neck. ''Softly, sweetling, softly. It's all right, now. I'm here.'' 

Meagan tip-toed out of the door, leaving the other dresses draped over a chair. The Mistress was nearly in tears herself; she had liked Madrigal from the beginning, reckoning her to be an intelligent, sweet-natured girl, though one of appallingly unfortunate circumstance. Meagan was glad that Lady Cathelin was back, and mistress of Inishowen... She'll see that things are put right, and soon!, Meagan thought. She closed the door carefully behind herself and said a silent prayer for Madrigal, hoping the poor girl would find some measure of peace at last. 
 

CHAPTER FIVE

Cathelin held Madrigal, rocking the smaller woman in her arms until the sobs changed to sniffles. She drew back a little and looked down into the slave's face. ''All done, sweetling?,'' she asked kindly. Cathelin had more than an inkling as to what Madrigal was going through; her experience in Outremer had given her a unique perspective on the effects of slavery. 

Madrigal wiped her eyes with one hand and stared at the wet stain on Cathelin's tunic. ''Oh!'' she exclaimed in horror. ''Your tunic!'' 

Cathelin looked down and chuckled. ''It's all right, Madri. It'll dry itself in a bit. But how are you?'' 

Madrigal sniffed. ''I'm fine, Lady,'' she replied. ''I just...'' For a moment, the Muslim girl hovered on the verge of a fresh outbreak of tears; she swallowed the lump in her throat and controlled them with an effort. ''Thank you,'' she said simply. 

''My pleasure, sweetling,'' Cathelin said. ''Now, if you're all right, I must be going to my meeting with Master Niall.'' Then she paused, as if remembering something. ''Where's that food I ordered?'' she asked of the air. Turning around, Cathelin opened the chamber door and shouted, ''Ho! A servant for your Lady!'' 

A male servant appeared almost as if by magic. ''Yes, Lady?'' he asked, bowing his head and tugging his forelock.. 

''I ordered a tray of food sent up from the kitchens some time ago!'' Cathelin snapped. ''Where is it?'' 

Tiny beads of sweat broke out on the servant's forehead. The man had been cautioned by all the other servers of their Lady's temper... and the tales they had told him, while sniggering behind their hands, had him terrified of this warrior queen. ''I-I-I...,'' he stammered, then caught hold of himself. ''I will inquire, Lady,'' he said, and turned, running headlong down the hall to the great stone staircase that lead down from the tower to the lower floors. 

Cathelin's lips twisted. By the standards of the day, she was quite lenient with her people; as Lady of Inishowen, she literally held the power of life and death over them, although she rarely exercised this privilege. Other lords might discipline with torture or hangings; she preferred a glove of velvet over a fist of steel. 

This did not mean that Cathelin allowed laxity or disrespect; indeed, nearly every servant at Inishowen had, at some time or another, been exposed to the Lady's fierce temper - and once was usually more than enough. 

Madrigal had sat down in a chair next to the fireplace, smoothing the fabric of her new dress with both hands. She looked at the fuming Lady. ''Perhaps it was forgotten?,'' she asked, trying to placate her mistress; one of her duties in the harem had been to attend to the needs of the other wives and concubines, and she had often been complimented on her peace-making skills. 

Cathelin clenched her jaw. ''If it was...,'' she replied ominously, but did not voice the threat; she spied the servant scurrying back along the hall, out of breath and panting heavily. 

''Well?'' Cathelin growled. 

The servant bowed and struggled to control his breathing. ''It comes, Lady. The Chief of the Hearth, Mistress Shevaughn, sends her apologies.'' 

Cathelin was annoyed, but controlled her anger. It was not this man's fault her orders had been ignored. She dismissed him and turned back to Madrigal. 

''Your tray will be here soon, Madri. If it is not, send Meagan to find me. I'll not be defied in my own house, by God!'' Cathelin had a fairly good idea of what had happened. Sorcha had deliberately not conveyed her orders to the kitchen staff, a petty gesture of defiance. She made a mental note to deal with the vixen later; she had no time at the present. The hetman, or overseer, of the village, Master Niall, would be waiting. 

Madrigal nodded, saying softly, ''Yes, Lady,'' although she would never have complained. It is not my place, she thought. I have no wish to make trouble. Allah has been kind thus far; it is best to avoid angering anyone, the lowly or the high.. 

Cathelin left the chamber, cutting a magnificently barbaric figure in her embroidered tunic and boots, braids of dark red hair framing her handsome face. She did not even bother to carry a light sword; unarmed, the Irishwoman would be more than a match for a man her own size. 

After she left, Madrigal busied herself going through the contents of the clothes chests, sorting and evaluating the numerous tunics, breeks, hose, shirts, vests, and other items of apparel. Some, like a breastband that was heavily stained and full of holes, she laid aside - these would be given to Mistress Meagan to be cut up as rags. Others, like a gorgeous teal blue tunic with intricate silver thread knotwork that had been picked in places, she put in a pile to be mended. 

Madrigal hummed softly to herself as she worked, an old romantic air she had heard played often in the harem by blind eunuch musicians. A tray of food, bearing a loaf of still warm bread, cheese and a slice of tender lamb, came and was devoured. As the child within her grew, Madrigal knew that she would be eating more and more; she hoped that she could gather up the courage to tell the Lady of her condition before it became too obvious. 

It was late afternoon before Madrigal was satisfied with her work. The enormous clothes chest had been organized to a fault, and all the mending had been done, except for the teal-blue tunic; she would have to ask the Lady for silver thread before that job could be finished. Madrigal had also strewn the chest with bundles of dried lavender gotten from Mistress Meagan, both to sweeten the clothing and to keep away devouring moths. 

Then the Muslim girl had bustled about the room in a flurry of cleaning and dusting. As a final touch, she emptied the cressets that hung on the walls of their burden of ash (the pierced iron vessels provided both warmth and light, were far cheaper than candles and cleaner than rushlights), and scrubbed away their coating of soot and rust. 

Now, Madrigal sat quietly, trying to finger-comb tangles from her incredibly long blue-black hair. A carved horn comb stood on the Lady's table in front of a bronze mirror, but the Muslim girl did not want to use it without permission. 

During her cleaning frenzy, Madrigal had removed her fine new dress and worked naked, it being easier to remove dirt from skin than cloth. She had also ventured from the confines of the Lady's chamber; although she had both dreaded and feared her reception, the other servant's had, at the least, been distantly polite. It was clear that her new status in the household had become common knowledge by some mysterious means. 

In truth, that was Mistress Meagan's doing. Before Cathelin had left, she had drawn the Scottish woman aside and told her to make sure that everyone at Inishowen understood - Madrigal was her personal servant and ranked as a lady's maid; anyone who offered her offense because of her former enslavement would face Cathelin's wrath. Meagan had gleefully done as she was bid, delighting especially in the crestfallen expression on Sorcha's face. 

After gathering a basin of cold water and quickly sluicing off the worst of the dirt, Madrigal had put her dress back on and sat, patiently waiting for her Lady. 

Smiling to herself, Cathelin entered the door of her private chamber and stopped dead in her tracks. 

When she had left that morning, the chamber had been, frankly, a mess. And it had not smelled very pretty, either; the lidded pot behind the screen in a corner had not been emptied, the fireplace had been full of clinkers and ash, the cressets emitting a feeble light at best. The fine tapestries that hung on the stone walls to keep out the cold were full of dust and spiderwebs; the chairs strewn with bits of clothing; the floor filthy and full of trash. 

Now, Cathelin's amber eyes were wide with amazement. It was as if, in her absence, a miracle had been wrought. 

The floor was not only clean, but sported a few bright rag rugs; the room smelled of lavender instead of stale piss; the cressets gleamed; even the furniture had been given a good coating of beeswax... And Madrigal sat by the fireplace, her dark purple eyes shining. 

Gracefully, Madrigal rose and crossed to Cathelin. ''Are you pleased, my Lady?'' she asked shyly, lowering her eyes. 

Madrigal was stunned when Cathelin placed a gentle kiss on her forehead and whispered, ''More than pleased, sweetling.'' 

Cathelin put her arm around the smaller woman's shoulders and gestured. ''Tis' nothing short of amazing, Madri. I should make you the chatelaine; at least, you've proved you have no fear of hard work.'' 

Madrigal's heart almost burst with pride. Searching for something to say to keep this moment from ending, she replied, ''All your clothing has been mended and aired, my Lady. But I need silver thread to fix one tunic; the knotwork has come undone in many places, and it cannot be mended until I have it.'' 

Cathelin gave her a friendly squeeze. ''Ask Meagan in the morning,'' she said. ''Surely we've a bit of silver thread squirreled away somewhere. Ah, you've done a fine job here, sweetling. I feel as if I'm truly at home, instead of dwelling in a pig sty.'' 

The Irishwoman let her arm drop away from Madrigal's shoulders, and crossed to the other side of the room where a long oak table served as a desk; unlike many of her peers, Cathelin could both read and write in Latin, and preferred to do her own correspondence instead of relying on the services of a paid scribe or priest. 

The account book for Inishowen was there; all her papers had been neatly stacked, and a new quill sharpened for her use. As Cathelin sat down, Madrigal immediately appeared at her elbow with a mazer of spiced wine; the square metal goblet, set with chunks of amethyst, was Cathelins' favorite and had been hers since she was a teenager. 

Cathelin nodded her thanks and began to write a letter to Sir Alan Eoghain, one of her neighbors; she would write letters to all the nearby lords, hoping she could hammer out agreements to take any surplus stores they might have at the end of the harvest in exchange for future favors. 

As she labored, Cathelin unconsiously rubbed the back of her neck; the muscles were rigid with tension and fatigue. Niall had been pessimistic; the fields had been allowed to lay half fallow, a quarter of the new calves had been lost due to disease brought on by fouled water, and the vegetable harvest, planted nearly too late, would be scanty at best. 

Cathelin tensed when she felt someone creep up directly behind her, but within a heartbeat she knew it was Madrigal. Soft but strong hands glided across her shoulders. Cathelin held her breath as those hands began rubbing, gently but firmly, skillfully teasing the knotted muscles into relaxation. 

Madrigal massaged her Lady's neck and shoulders, softly humming to herself. She had noticed the Irishwoman's discomfort, and, wanting to be as thorough in her duties as possible, decided to massage away her mistress' pain. It was something she had been taught as a child, when she was a servant in the household of a physician. 

Cathelin closed her eyes and bit back a groan as Madrigal's hands kneaded the stiff muscles in her neck. She let her head fall forward, letter forgotten, as little by little, the wire-tight tension she had felt all afternoon faded beneath the Muslim girl's ministrations. 

Cathelin was acutely aware of how close Madrigal was to her; even through the linen tunic, she could feel the other woman's body heat against the skin of her back. Finally, however, the massage ended; those wonderful hands slid away, and Cathelin was left relaxed, but with a different sort of tension coiling in her lower belly. 

Firmly, the Irishwoman thrust that thought away. Madrigal had been a pleasure slave; no one knew better than she how such wretched girls were treated. Cathelin would never force herself on an unwilling woman, especially one who believed she had no choice and would submit out of fear. Better to sleep in a cold bed, Cathelin thought, than hurt the poor girl any further. 

Besides, she thought, if it's company I'm needing, there are a few down in the soldier's barracks who'd be happy to share a jug of wine and a tumble with me. Cathelin found herself thinking about a freckle-faced, crop haired kern with a beautiful smile and the nicest heart-shaped arse she'd ever seen. What was her name? Aoife, Cathelin thought with a mental purr. 

Cathelin stood abruptly and stretched. ''Er, Madri?'' she asked, turning around. ''I'll be off now. You can eat in the kitchens, if you like, or else have a tray fetched up. Don't wait up for me, sweetling. Take to bed when you've a mind.'' 

Madrigal stopped trying to work a particularly difficult tangle from her blue-black hair. ''Yes, Lady,'' she answered. ''Have you found another place you wish me to stay?'' 

Cathelin was startled for a moment. ''Well,'' she began, ''I've been a wee bit busy of late, but if it's another bed you're wishing for, I can...'' 

Madrigal interrupted shyly, ''No, Lady. Do not trouble yourself, please. I am content.'' Cathelin shrugged. She didn't mind sharing a bed; she'd done it before, and with lice-ridden men, too, in Outremer. ''Whatever you wish.'' She watched Madrigal trying to pick out the knot in her hair, then scooped up the wooden comb from the dressing table. ''Here, lass. This may work better,'' Cathelin said, handing the comb to the other woman. 

Madrigal took it tentatively, then bestowed such a beautiful smile on the astonished Irishwoman that her heart nearly stopped. ''Thank you, Lady,'' Madrigal murmured. 

Cathelin cleared her throat. ''I'll be off now. Don't stress yourself too much, Madri. You still need to rest.'' 

Madrigal bowed her head in acknowledgement, and Cathelin left, relieved to be away from the slave girl's presence. St. Brigit! Cathelin thought, hurrying to the soldier's barracks. ''Glad I am to have her here,'' she said softly to herself, ''but when the Good Lord spoke of temptation, I truly believe he had no idea.'' 
 

CHAPTER SIX

Madrigal went down to the kitchens and met Shevaughn, Chief of the Hearth. She was an enormously tall woman and nearly as broad, with a round red face and a booming laugh. Some of the other servants treated Madrigal coolly - in fact, Sorcha ostentatiously took her wooden bowl of stew and left the room with a sniff as Madrigal sat down - but at least, no one dared offend her outright. 

Shevaughn was frankly astonished at Madrigal's command of English. ''An' ye've been in this country only a few years?'' she asked, absently smacking a pot boy as he tried to sneak a meat pastry from the cooling rack. 

''Yes, Mistress,'' Madrigal answered. ''On the boat from Palestine, my former master insisted that I learn his language as quickly as possible.'' Privately, Madrigal thought that being lashed each time she made a mistake was a good incentive to learn quickly. 

Shevaughn shook her head, jowls wobbing. ''Sweet Jesus,'' she said. ''Ye've a good head on yer shoulders, lassie. No doubt the Lady thinks the same. But here I am, natterin' on like a lack-wit. Eat, child. Eat!'' 

Madrigal finished the meal in silence, and Shevaughn, noticing her appetite, dished up seconds and even thirds without being asked. When the Muslim girl offered a shy compliment, the Hearth Chief swelled with pride. ''I can see ye appreciates good cookin' when ye sees it, lassie. Yer welcome in my kitchens anytime.'' Shevaughn glared fiercely at the other servants, obviously daring them to contradict her. 

No one did; Shevaughn was as feared in her smoky realm as Cathelin was on the battleground. Only last year, a drunken kern of Francis' had tried to roughly woo the Hearth Chief in her own domain; there was still a gouge on the heavy oak kitchen door where she'd pinned him to it with an accurately thrown knife. 

Shevaughn beamed at Madrigal. ''Ye see? My folk likes ye as well.'' 

Madrigal choked back a chuckle. Rising gracefully, she replied, ''Many thanks, Mistress, for the meal and the company. Now, I must return to the Lady's chambers and await her return.'' 

Back upstairs, Madrigal removed her cherished dress and pulled on her nightshirt, wishing Cathelin was there to change her bandages. The cuts on her back were no longer as painful, but every time she moved, the Muslim girl could feel the fragile skin stretching uncomfortably. 

At last, covering the cressets with their wrought iron lids and banking the fire, Madrigal pulled the wolfskin cover off the bed and slipped between the cool sheets. It was not too long before she fell into a deep sleep.

Cathelin reeled up the stairs, tunic slung over her muscular shoulder. In one hand, she held an nearly empty wine jug; with the other, she supported herself against the stone wall as she bumped from stair to stair. Cathelin O'Cameron was drunk as an earl, and sated on both wine and love. 

Sweet, sweet Aoife, Cathelin thought muzzily. The guardswoman had been quite enthusiastic to the idea of a tumble in the hayloft above the stable, and Cathelin was sure she would still be picking straw out of strange places come morning. 

The Irishwoman staggered into the darkened bedchamber, striking her shin against a table leg. Cursing, she lost her balance and stumbled across the room, arms windmilling, the wine jug forgotten until it landed with a crash against the hearth, and finally fell over a chair with a bump and a vile oath. 

Madrigal sat up, clutching the sheet to her bosom. In the dim light from the banked embers of the fireplace, she could see Cathelin sprawled over a chair, clutching her aching leg in both hands and swearing softly. 

Madrigal hastily got out of bed and stirred up the fire, lighting a cresset with a flaming splinter of kindling. That done, she hurried to Cathelin's side. ''Lady?'' she asked, ''Are you hurt? Ill?'' 

Cathelin grinned at her crookedly. Her dark crimson hair was unbound and sprinkled with bits of hay; the exposed skin of her torso blotched and sweaty. With a start, Madrigal realized the purpling bruise on one breast was a love-bite, and she blushed. 

Cathelin crooned, ''Pretty, pretty Madri.'' She gave the astonished and embarrassed slave girl a wink. ''Have some wine, sch.. sch... sweetling. S'good wine. S'over there, I'm thinkin'. By're Lady!,'' she exclaimed, looking mournfully at the shattered wine jug on the hearth, ''What a waste! And a good swallow left, too.''  Madrigal realized with a sigh that her Lady was drunk. She stood and put one of Cathelin's arms around her shoulders, pulling the inebriated Irishwoman up with an effort that left spots dancing in front of her eyes. Allah! Madrigal thought, nearly wheezing. She's as heavy as a she-camel! 

The two women staggered over to the bed, Madrigal's face red with strain, and Cathelin softly slurring a bawdy song under her breath. Finally, Madrigal managed to get Cathelin seated on the edge of the bed, and knelt down to remove her boots. 

After tugging on one boot unsuccessfully, Madrigal sat back with an exasperated sigh. Cathelin chuckled. ''Nay, Madri. That's no how it's done. Turn around an' grab it from behind.'' 

Madrigal did as she was bid, straddling Cathelin's outthrust leg and bending over, the boot held tightly in both hands. With a start, she felt Cathelin's other boot on her backside. 

''Now, lassie, pull!'' Cathelin shouted, giving the Muslim woman's buttocks a shove. The boot popped off, and Madrigal nearly fell face-first into the floor, only avoiding disaster by catching herself with her hands. The scene was repeated for the second boot, and Madrigal hastened to untie Cathelin's dirty hose and remove her loincloth. The Irishwoman did not make this an easy task; she lolled on the bed, giggling and singing to herself, while Madrigal sweated and struggled. 

After much effort and not a fewArabic curses muttered under her breath, Madrigal finally got Cathelin settled beneath the sheets and banked the fire again, smothered the cresset, and lay her Lady's clothes neatly on top of the clothes chest. At last, the weary slave girl climbed into her own side of the bed and lay awake for a while, listening to Cathelin's soft snores. 

Sleep, when it finally came, would be all too brief.

Thick clouds of dust swirled over the battlefield, obscuring the hot yellow sun. The screams of horses rivaled the hoarse pleas of wounded men as the battle raged, twin smells of blood and bowel-stench heavy in her nostrils. 

Blacksunne wielded her mighty broadsword with skill - and hatred. The siege of Acre had broken; the desperate Saracen army had poured from the walls, wailing and shrieking to their god, each one determined to die on the battlefield to secure his place in the heathen Paradise.

To Cathelin, it seemed as if a red haze obscured her vision. Only four days ago, her lover Irizin had died in her arms, tortured and beaten to death by her master. Each one of the men who died, spitted on her blade, bore the face of Irizin's murderer. Behind the visor of her war helm, her teeth were gritted, face a mask of murderous rage as she swept through the Saracen ranks, leaving a path of utter destruction in her wake. 

One after another, they came... and one after another they died. She lost count of the men she killed; she battled in a trance of insane blood lust, lopping off heads and limbs with an almost casual skill that left even her own allies chilled with fear. 

At last, she wrenched off her helm, crimson hair nearly black with sweat and filth. She took a waterskin from her squire, Thomas, and squirted the lukewarm water over her face and head. The battle was over; two thousand seven hundred Muslim prisoners had been taken, and the city of Acre belonged once again to the Crusaders. 

With indifference, she noticed that her broadsword's blade was clotted with blood and notched all along its length from the violence of her blows. Thomas handed her a cloth, and she began to wipe down the steel. Cathelin felt detached; it was as if all her emotions, having been caught up in a whirlwind of hate and fury, had subsided completely, leaving her empty and drained of all. 

A figure strode through the swirling dust; it was King Richard, his own once-gleaming armor of blue steel fouled and dull. He pushed back his visor, revealing the handsome Plantagenet face; his blue eyes were dark with exertion, but an inner fire burned there. Unlike some Crusaders, Richard fought, not for personal gain, but for the glory of God. 

''The Saracens would not surrender; they asked for no quarter, and none shall be given. When you have rested a while, O'Cameron, come join the other men. Every one of the prisoners will die, as a gesture to Saladin that we shall not brook no denial of our quest - to free Jerusalem, or to die.'' Richard's voice was deep and self-assured; the King doubted nothing, his faith in God rock firm. 

Cathelin nodded her acceptance. ''Aye, Your Majesty,'' she rasped. ''Kill them all, let God Almighty sort them out.'' 

Richard chuckled. ''Then I take it you will have no difficulty serving your term on executioner's duty?'' 

Having gotten the blade cleaned to her satisfaction, she rammed the broadsword back into its scabbard and looked at her King for the first time. Even he, the bravest man in Christendom, flinched back from the flames that twisted and burned in Cathelin's amber eyes. ''Count on it, my liege,'' she said huskily, and her lips stretched over her teeth in a wolf's hungry grin. ''Just as soon as I sharpen my sword.'' 

The Muslim prisoners died; by the dozens, by the hundreds, and by the thousands. Several priests from Richard's own household went down the endless line, asking each prisoner if he would renounce his heretical faith and join his destiny with the Christian God. None did, but it would not have saved them anyway. The King was determined that every Saracen would die; if any had converted, they would have been shriven before execution to ensure their place in Heaven. 

Day wore into evening, then into night, and into morning again, and the battlefield outside the city was soaked in blood, strewn with the bodies of the dead. Vultures had already begun their work when Cathelin took up hers, the broadsword of the O'Camerons raising mechanically up and down as she mowed through the line of kneeling prisoners, neatly beheading each one. When her aching arm could lift the sword no more, she stopped, panting, face speckled with blood, and turned back,  smile of savage satisfaction dying... 

Her amber eyes widened as she looked... 

...At the headless bodies sprawled on the ground, some still quivering. 

...At the faces of the men who had not yet died. Some had clearly accepted their fate and waited with dignity; others babbled prayers and pleaded with Allah for mercy. Some were mere boys, not yet bearded, while others were wrinkled and brown, dark hair sprinkled with gray. 

...At her fellow knights, who drank and laughed and mocked the death throes of the Muslims, making faces and telling jokes, spitting and reviling, each one trying to outdo the other in cruelty and vicious humor. 

...At King Richard, who knelt, hands clasped, eyes closed, as he prayed for God to lend him strength for the coming battle, and to speed the souls of the heretic Outremer Saracens to Hell. 

The enormity of what she had done finally struck Cathelin like a hammer blow. Her senses reeled as long-denied emotions rushed to the fore - guilt for Irizin, guilt for her own slaughter, sorrow and bitter rue; her hand clutched the hilt of her broadsword covulsively. Unable to stand, she fell to her knees; her heart ached and burned, throbbing in her chest like a wound. She was a soldier; her duty was to kill at the King's command - but she had become a butcher, no better than the man who had ordered Irizin's death. 

She had killed those men like cattle, men helpless and bound, and against all her oaths of chivalry and knightly vows, she had not only done the deed, but she had enjoyed it, reveled in death and the taste of hate, laughed in the depths of her soul as the blood of her enemies, heady as wine, flowed across her lips... A sweet, coppery taste she could still sense in her own mouth... 

She could not deny any longer. On her knees, the sword of her family lying forgotten in the blood-drenched dust, Cathelin wept like a child for the loss of life, wept for the sheer waste of it all, wept for her butchered Irizin, and at long last, wept for her own lost innocence.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Madrigal was wakened by a whimper from the woman who lay next to her. Propping herself up on an elbow, the Muslim girl carefully leaned over, trying to see if the Lady was ill from her drinking bout. 

Cathelin's head thrashed on the flat pillow, face greasy with sweat. Madrigal could see her eyes rolling beneath the closed lids, and Cathelin's fists clutched the sheets in a deathgrip. 

''No...,'' Cathelin whispered, panting in desperation, ''Not again... no more...please...'' 

Ah, Madrigal thought, the Lady rides the Night Mare, and from the sound of it, the journey is not a pleasant one. 

Madrigal's heart swelled with compassion and she suddenly felt close to tears. To see one as mighty as the Lady suffer, caught helplessly in the grip of evil dreams, roused the slave's pity. Although she had known Cathelin only a very little time, already Madrigal felt an enormous sense of trust. It was as if she had discovered a thing she had already known; something that had lain just out of reach in her former life, but was now within her grasp, if only she dared reach out her hand. 

Praying to Allah that her trust had not been misplaced, Madrigal began to croon a nonsense lullaby in Arabic, one she had learned as a child, and with her hand, traced lazy patterns on the Irishwoman's brow. 

''Come, little one,'' Madrigal sang softly, ''the evening draws near. Come, little one, and have no more fear. Climb up in your bed, and lay down your head, while I sing the western wind away...'' 

That simple song had more effect than Madrigal could have ever hoped for. Cathelin calmed; her breathing evened out and grew more regular, her hands relaxed their hold on the sheets. The battleground of Acre faded, and she slipped back into true sleep, nightmare visions soothed away. 

Madrigal continued to sing until she was sure that the other woman was no longer plagued by the Horse of Evening Ill. She withdrew her hand and settled back on her side, listening to Cathelin breathe. 

She had nearly fallen asleep herself when she felt a long, muscular form mold itself to her back. Cathelin snuggled up against Madrigal with a sigh of pure contentment, putting one arm around the Muslim girl's belly and drawing her legs up against the other woman's. Madrigal's eyes widened when she felt Cathelin's face buried in her hair, warm breath against the back of her neck. 

The dark-haired woman tried surreptitiously to free herself, but her efforts only caused Cathelin to mutter restlessly and tighten her grip. Madrigal gave up and closed her eyes... feeling warm and cherished and oddly comforted by the closeness of her Lady. 

When Madrigal woke the next morning, Cathelin was seated at her desk, eating a meat pastry and scratching on a bit of parchment with a quill pen. 

A pair of servants entered, rolling the wine cask tub along the floor. After they set it up in a small alcove, a seemingly endless parade of servants trooped in, carrying buckets of steaming water which they emptied smoothly, spilling not a drop. In a little while, the tub was full; a final servant scattered a double handful of dried herbs across the surface of the water, laid out a clay jar of soft soap, linen rags, a small bucket of hulled oats and a copper dipper. He then departed, leaving the two women alone. 

Cathelin put down her pen and stood, stretching with the boneless grace of a cat. Madrigal gulped when she saw the muscles rippling beneath the surface of the Lady's smooth skin. Cathelin was nude; sunlight struck sparks from her dark crimson hair, and the fiery curls between her thighs glowed like rubies. The sight dazzled the slave into speechlessness. 

''Well, the lay-abed's finally awake, eh?'' Cathelin asked with a smile, amber eyes twinkling. ''You'd better hurry, lazybones, or the water'll be colder than a witch's tit.'' 

Cathelin had wakened with the Muslim girl cuddled in her arms. For the life of her, she could not remember if something had happened or not. She had lain awake a long time, studying the other woman features. Sweet, heart-shaped face, delicate cheekbones and chin, and a nose straight from a Grecian urn. The angle of Madrigal's jaw made her profile as clear as a line of flame, and just as hypnotic. 

The few locks of blue-black hair that feathered across her face made her creamy skin seem even paler. Madrigal was, quite simply, the most stunningly beautiful woman Cathelin had ever seen, and she hoped fervently that she had not done Madrigal an injury; Cathelin was feeling a little nervous as she waited for the other woman's reaction. 

The Irishwoman walked over to the bed and handed Madrigal a flaky pastry. ''Here. Eat this, sweetling. Then you can wash and soak a while with me.'' Cathelin watched carefully for any sign of repugnance or fear; but Madrigal sat up and took the pastry with a smile of thanks, and Cathelin breathed a silent sigh of relief. 

The smell of the pastry in her hand was, at first, appealing. But suddenly, the scent turned Madrigal's belly inside-out. Dropping the meat pie, Madrigal stumbled off the bed and fell to her knees beside the chamber pot, heaving and retching convulsively. 

Cathelin was instantly at her side, pulling back the Muslim girl's long blue-black hair and supporting her. ''What's wrong, Madri?'' Cathelin asked anxiously. ''T'isn't pig, you know.'' May God damn me for a selfish swine myself, she thought savagely, if it's anything I've done to provoke this. 

Just the thought of pork, the forbidden meat of her faith, made Madrigal's stomach rebel again. She retched helplessly, acrid taste of bile making her even sicker. Finally, though, just when she thought she would die, the nausea eased. Madrigal sat back on her heels, wiping her mouth with one hand, the other clutching her stomach. 

Cathelin tenderly wiped her face with a damp linen rag. ''Are you well again, sweetling?'' 

Madrigal nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She put her hand on Cathelin's arm and tried to rise, but the Irishwoman prevented her. 

''No, no, sit here a while till it passes. Did I...'' Cathelin hesitated to ask the question that was burning inside her. Taking a deep breath, she said, ''Did I do something to you last night, Madri? Quite the head I had, and when I woke up...'' Her voice trailed off. She could not continue. 

Madrigal looked at the Lady, dark eyes filled with an expression of puzzlement. ''Do, Lady? You came in and hit your leg, the wine jug was broken, and I helped you into bed. That is all I know.'' Privately, Madrigal did not want the Lady to know that she had seen her riding the Night Mare. It would embarrass the warrior to know that her vulnerability had been witnessed, so Madrigal vowed to keep silent on the matter. 

Cathelin was relieved again, but now she found herself concerned about the cause of Madrigal's illness. ''Good. Now, I know you've not eaten this day, unless you raided the kitchens in the night, which I doubt. Here, rinse out your mouth,'' she said, handing Madrigal her own mazer of clean spring water. As the slave girl did as she was told, spitting the water into the chamber pot, Cathelin continued, ''So it can't be tainted food or poison. Unless... what did you eat for supper?'' 

Madrigal whispered, ''Stew. Like the others.'' 

''And you had nothing special? Mind you, Madri, I'll not be angry. I know Shevaughn too well,'' (and Sorcha, she added silently). ''Give her half a chance, and she'll stuff you like a Solstice goose.'' Cathelin helped Madrigal back to her feet and kept one arm around the smaller woman, who swayed, feeling a little dizzy. 

''No, Lady. I had the same as the others.'' Madrigal put a hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. She truly did not feel well at all. 

Cathelin shook her head. ''Well, I confess to being baffled, sweetling. I'll have one of the men run down to the Abbey; Brother Ignatius is a fine apothecary. I'd trust him afore I'd trust anyone else. P'raps you've only eaten too much and made yourself sick by it, but I'd rather be sure.'' 

Madrigal weakly protested, but Cathelin was firm. ''T'is the same as I'd do for any who look to me, Madri. I've made up my mind, and what's done is done. Now, do you feel well enough for your bath?'' 

Madrigal nodded, feeling exhausted and not a little apprehensive. She knew full well why she had gotten sick; she had suffered from morning illness nearly every day, sometimes even into the afternoon, when the child first began to grow. She had hoped to be past that time, but it was obvious that Allah had not yet finished with his trials. And I pray this priest of the Christ is not as learned as the Lady believes, Madrigal thought fervently. 

She knew it would not be much longer before her pregnancy was obvious, but she wanted to put off telling her Lady as long as possible. Once the Lady sees how well I perform my duties, Madrigal thought, then perhaps her wrath will be softened. She did not really fear being killed any longer; instead, she hesitated to place another burden on the already heavy load she knew her Lady carried on her broad shoulders. To know that a child conceived of the hated Lord Francis dwelled beneath Inishowen's roof - well, such a child could be the focus of the Lord's further ambitions. 

No, it was best to keep silent and wait, Madrigal decided. No need to concern my Lady now. 

The master's chamber was so large that the tub sat by itself in splendid isolation in an alcove, steam rising in wisps from the enormous oaken cask. Cathelin steered Madrigal to the tub and helped her off with the nightshirt, carefully peeling away the stained bandages on her back, but stopped Madrigal from getting in. 

''Nay, sweetling. Wash first, then soak. Here, I'll help you.'' Cathelin dipped hot water from the tub and poured it over Madrigal's shoulders, then scooped up a little soft soap from the jar onto a linen rag and sprinkled a bit of oats over it. When Madrigal looked curiously at this ritual, Cathelin explained, ''The oats'll help scrub off the dirt. T'is marvelous good for the skin.'' 

Madrigal stood absolutely still as Cathelin rubbed the rag across her shoulders, scrubbing gently, her touch impersonal yet caring at the same time. Down her back, mindful of still tender scabs; across both small, firm buttocks; massaging the backs of her thighs, the sensitive hollows of her knees. Madrigal closed her eyes as tiny ripples of pleasure flowed through her with each firm glide of the slippery cloth. Then she shuddered as Cathelin dipped more hot water and let it cascade over the other woman, rinsing away soap and oats and grime. 

Madrigal gasped when Cathelin poked her with one finger. ''Here, Madri,'' Cathelin said, her face expressionless. ''You can wash your own front; I need to wash my own self afore the water turns cold.'' 

Cathelin turned her back as she began her own scrubbing. The Irishwoman's heart was pounding. She'd meant to be kind and helpful, but had found herself growing increasingly aroused by Madrigal as she'd washed her. 

The Muslim girl's skin was like velvet, soft but with a firmness beneath that gave lie to her seeming fragility. Kneeling on the floor, ignoring the harsh stone beneath her knees, Cathelin had smelled the other woman, Madrigal's scent like honey and musk, and had felt her own desire roused to near fever pitch. She'd had to stop; Cathelin knew that if she had continued, the washing would have quickly turned to seduction, and she was determined to leave the former slave strictly alone. 

I'll not force her, the red-haired woman thought. She's been through enough as t'is. Cathelin scrubbed quickly, hoping the cool rush of air against her wet skin would help chill her ardor. 

For her part, Madrigal was feeling both disappointed and relieved, but also a bit self-conscious. She washed herself, wondering why her Lady had stopped. Perhaps I have done something to offend her, Madrigal thought, and wondered what it could have been. 

Then a thought struck the Muslim girl. Of course, she thought, I am blind! I am the servant here; it is not seemly that the Lady wash me as if I were her own child. I should be washing her. Foolish, foolish slave! she chided herself, rinsing quickly. Your ignorance of duty will be your downfall! Just because the Lady has been kind does not mean you may ignore her needs. 

Quickly, Madrigal asked, ''Lady? Do you wish me to scrub your back?'' 

Cathelin stood stock still and took a deep breath. She forced herself to calm. Easy, woman! she thought. The girl's only trying to be helpful. Cathelin said aloud, ''Why, yes, Madri. Thank you kindly.'' 

Cathelin handed the cloth to the Muslim girl, who eagerly began scrubbing Cathelin's back, hoping by enthusiasm to be forgiven for her lapse. Madrigal marveled at the scars on the other woman's skin; so many, and some had obviously been deep wounds, and yet her Lady had survived. That she was a great warrior, the slave had no doubt. But until this moment, she had not realized how great. 

Madrigal felt a sudden flush of pride. She had heard it said that the status of the master reflects upon the slave; she had never felt this way herself, and had not truly understood what it meant until now. 

To bask in the shadow of the mighty is a wonderous thing, Madrigal decided. To know that I stand in the presence of one who has braved untold dangers, and faced death in battle, the greatest warrior in the world... and I am trusted with her very life! For does she not allow me to sleep in her bed, serve her food, be closer to her than any other living being... Truly, Allah has blessed His servant. This is a mistress I can be proud of serving. 

Little by little, Madrigal's confidence was trickling back. She made a mental vow to help her Lady as much as possible. If I can draw away some of her burdens, then I will be a true servant - the Left Hand of the Master, she thought, remembering the title given to slaves who were so trusted and loyal, they were given a status nearly equal to a family member, and at death, were honored by a place in their owner's own tombs. 

Cathelin shuddered a little as Madrigal, in her newfound pride, scrubbed all the harder, seemingly determined to buff her mistress' skin until it gleamed. It was not painful; in fact, it was just the opposite. Finally, Cathelin could stand no more. ''Thank you, Madri,'' she rasped, eyes closed tightly, ''But I think my back can get no cleaner.'' 

Madrigal smiled. ''Yes, Lady,'' she replied as she rinsed Cathlin with dippers of hot water. ''Now, we soak?'' 

''Yes. We soak.'' Cathelin helped Madrigal into the tub, then climbed in herself, mentally thanking God that the heat of the water would conceal the flush of desire that covered her skin. 

It became obvious that both women would not fit comfortably facing one another; with a sigh, Cathelin motioned for Madrigal to sit between her spread legs and rest her back against the taller woman's torso. 

Madrigal leaned back, her head pillowed against Cathelin's neck. One of the Irishwoman's arms was around her waist, helping support her. Madrigal rested her arms on the sides of the wine cask, eyes closed and utterly relaxed, feeling a little drowsy. 

Cathelin rested her chin on top of Madrigal's head, closing her own eyes. The water was hot enough that she felt herself beginning to relax; even with the other woman's closeness, the slide of skin against skin, Cathelin's breasts rubbing against Madrigal's back, the Irishwoman felt desire slipping away, replaced by calmer contentment. 

They soaked a while, then, while the water was still warm, Cathelin asked Madrigal to wash her hair. 

Delighted, Madrigal complied; then nothing would do but for Cathelin to wash Madrigal's own blue-black locks. 

Madrigal's eyes were squeezed shut against the soap suds dripping into her face as Cathelin's fingers massaged her scalp. Then she heard the Lady's voice, amused: ''Hold your breath, sweetling!'' and that was all the warning she received before Cathelin pushed her head beneath the water. 

Madrigal came up sputtering, arms flailing wildly, fingers scrabbling to find purchase on the rough sides of the tub. Drowning! Fear and panic swept through the Muslim girl; she kicked out with her legs, whimpering and retching, all rational thought gone in the instinctive animal's struggle to survive. 

In the first few seconds, Cathelin thought it was a jest, an excuse to get into a water fight. But the instant she realized Madrigal's distress was not a joke, Cathelin grabbed her, holding the thrashing woman tightly, ignoring the minor pain of nails raking across her shoulders, legs flailing wildly against her thighs. Madrigal tossed her head back and forth, strings of wet black hair clinging to her face. Her eyes were open but unseeing; she was panting with exertion and panic. 

''Madri!'' Cathelin said urgently, ''Madri, you're safe! You're safe, sweetling! Softly, Madri, softly. Shhhh,'' the Irishwoman crooned, ''You're safe now. I've got you.''

Madrigal's hands tightened convulsively on Cathelin's shoulders as, with a shudder, she began to cry. 

Cathelin held her for a moment, tucking the other woman's head against the side of her neck. I'd better get the both of us out of this water before we catch our death of cold, Cathelin thought. 

Not loosening her grip on Madrigal, Cathelin gathered her legs beneath her and stood, powerful muscles uncoiling, sheets of water slopping over the side of the tub. She held Madrigal in her arms, carrying the slave like a child, while hot tears continued to scorch the skin of her neck. 

Cathelin persuaded Madrigal to loosen her grip long enough to be wrapped in a dry sheet and tucked into a chair near the hearth. Ignoring the water droplets sprinkling her skin, Cathelin crouched down and built up the fire, tossing a few bundles of dried herbs on the wood to sweeten the smoke. Despite the summer day, the interior of Inishown was a little chilly; the thick stone walls did not absorb heat very well. 

Finally, Cathelin dried herself off briskly, then pulled on an old tunic, not bothering with underclothes or hose. She picked Madrigal up from the chair like a doll, and sat down, tucking the other woman in her lap. 

Madrigal's face was shiny with tears; wrapped in her linen sheet, soaking wet hair slowly drizzling a puddle on the floor, dark purple eyes rimmed with red, she looked as forlorn as a lost child. 

Cathelin settled Madrigal's weight more firmly against herself, took one of the miserable girl's hands in her own, and sighed. ''Well... if I'd know you'd take my jape so ill, sweetling, I'd never have done so. Surely you did not think I meant to drown you?'' 

Madrigal shook her head. Now that the panic attack was over, she felt nauseous, headachy and very much ashamed. ''Forgive me, Lady,'' she whispered. ''I... I...'' The Muslim girl shook her head again, her throat constricted by remembered fear. 

''Tell me.'' Cathelin's voice held calm command; Madrigal looked into the Lady's amber gold eyes and realized that in this, she would not be denied. 

Bowing her head to hide her shame, Madrigal did as she was bid. She began her tale with her new master, an English knight, purchasing her in Palestine.
 

CHAPTER EIGHT

"I was purchased by the Inglizi Lord from the Palestine slave market; the Chief Wife of the merchant prince I belonged to took exception to her husband's growing interest in me, and had me sold.'' Madrigal's voice was soft and steady, if a little rough from swallowing the bathwater; the hand still clasped in Cathelin's grasp was cool and dry. 

Madrigal continued, ''The Inglizi Lord kept me for a few days in Palestine. Then, we went to the ship which would take us to England...'' As the Muslim girl continued, still speaking calmly of the Inglizi's casual brutality, Cathelin's lips compressed into a tight line and her nostrils whitened in suppressed fury. 

Madrigal spoke of daily beatings, whippings and rapes; the Inglizi had broken her ribs, smashed his fists into her face, kicked her savagely when she lay helpless on the ground, retching in terror and pain. His methods when it came to teaching her English were equally brutal; each time she made a mistake, he whipped her with a pony lash until the blood ran. 

''One day, I displeased the Lord. He had been drinking much; he was very angry that I had forgotten some small chore. The Lord decided that I needed to be taught a lesson...'' 

And that lesson was one which Madrigal would never forget. Hauling the weeping, pleading young woman by the wrists, the Inglizi had dragged her to the stern of the ship and ripped off her simple linen shift. Standing there naked, shivering in the wind,  face wet with tears, Madrigal had been sure the Lord intended to offer her to the sailing men, who had prowled around the scene like animals close to being maddened by blood scent. 

Instead, the Inglizi had something more diabolical and sadistic in mind. He had wrapped hempen rope around Madrigal's wrists, tying her bonds so tightly they drew blood. Then, he drew back his leg and kicked her off the stern. 

Madrigal would never forget that horrible moment. Sailing through the air... all the breath driven from her lungs as the sea came up to meet her with a hammer blow. Being dragged behind the sailing vessel, helpless, twisting in her bonds, one minute below the ocean, the next above, in so much pain she would have screamed if she'd been able, arms nearly wrenched from their sockets. In a state of absolute terror, she had gasped for air, inhaling seawater, which only made her panicked state worse. Finally, after a time which had seemed an endless eternity in Hell, she had been hauled up like a fishing catch, dripping and half dead from near drowning and fear, and dumped back on the deck. 

The Inglizi's eyes had betrayed his excitement as Madrigal had lain there, shivering, almost mindless with terror. 

Madrigal stopped speaking. She kept her eyes downcast, staring at the pattern of threads in the linen sheet that was wrapped around her. 

Long minutes passed, broken only by the hoarse sound of Cathelins' breathing. Finally, Cathelin asked, ''What's his name?'' 

Madrigal shivered. ''I...,'' she began, then stopped as a lump in her throat prevented speech. She had a superstitious dread of the Inglizi and thought he was an evil djinn; even the mention of his name might be enough to put her in his power again. 

Cathelin's voice was as hard as the steel of her broadsword, and just as sharp. ''Look at me.'' 

Madrigal raised her head and stared into her Lady's eyes... they were molten pools of gold, so bright they dazzled. Cathelin said again, ''What is his name?''The Irishwoman was very nearly in a killing rage; the only thing that prevented her from grabbing a sword from the wall and hacking the room apart was the thought that Madrigal needed comforting, not more fear. As she waited for a reply, Cathelin slowly disciplined herself to a calmer state. 

Softly, praying that her Lady was strong enough to protect her, Madrigal replied, ''Wallace. Alexander Wallace, my Lady.'' 

Cathelin pulled Madrigal to her chest and held her tightly. ''I'll make you a Solstice gift of his head, sweetling. That worm-riddled bastard doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as you.'' She gently kissed the Muslim woman on the forehead. ''I may even go hunting afore Samhain. He'll no more hurt you, Madri. On my honor, I swear it.'' 

She wanted to do nothing more than leap on the first horse and track this Wallace down, but schooled herself to wait. Cathelin had heard of him; he was reputed to be a mediocre swordsman with a mean streak wider and longer than the road from Cork to Dublin. I'll find him soon enough, the Irishwoman thought, and I'll bury his worthless carcass face down and unshriven. Surely, if any go to a deserving Hell, t'will be Alexander Wallace.

Madrigal, greatly daring, put her arms around Cathelin's neck and laid her face against the other woman's throat. ''Do not trouble yourself over me, Lady,'' she said. ''I am well enough.'' 

Roughly, Cathelin said, ''No. If I had known...'' She could not finish. Cathelin's heart was filled with pity, and more than pity, for the sweet young girl she held in her arms. To have survived all that and not be made bitter by it was a matter of amazement and profound respect. Madrigal was far braver than many soldiers and knights Cathelin had met; she doubted any of her own kerns could have suffered so and survived. 

They sat together, each taking comfort from the other's presence, listening to the sound of each other's heartbeats, and the soft rhythm of their breathing. 

Finally, Cathelin rose, cradling Madrigal in her arms. ''Sweetling, I must go,'' she said regretfully as she carried the Muslim woman to the bed and set her down carefully. ''I hope to be back afore the evening meal. In the meanime, you rest. I'll have someone run down to the Abbey and fetch Brother Ignatius.'' 

Madrigal had forgotten about the holy man. ''I feel much better, Lady,'' she said, hoping to forestall the monk's visit. ''Perhaps it was only the rich food. I am not accustomed to such fare.'' 

Cathelin snatched the old tunic over her head, dropping it on the floor, and pulled on a pair of dark brown knitted hose. ''I'd feel better knowing Brother Ignatius looked at you anyway. Don't fret yourself, sweetling. He's a kindly old man who'll treat you like his favorite daughter, so there's no reason to be a-feared. '' Cathelin felt Madrigal's protests were the result of her terrible experiences; she wanted to reassure the other woman that Ignatius was no threat. 

Madrigal bowed her head in acceptance of the unavoidable. ''Yes, Lady,'' she replied. ''I will make the holy man welcome.'' 

Cathelin quickly ran a comb through her dark crimson hair and braided it up into a long queue that fell down the middle of her back to her waist; then she drew on a light tan, sleeveless tunic, embroidered with running stags around the square neckline,  armholes decorated with whipped leather stitches. The tunic exposed her lightly tanned, muscular arms, and the color contrasted sharply with the dark tattoo that snaked around her upper left. On top of the tunic she put a simple leather vest, and pulled on her boots. 

With a smile, Cathelin went to the door and opened it. ''Be well, Madri,'' she said. ''I'll try not to drink too much wine tonight.'' 

Madrigal smiled in return as Cathelin left. 

Sighing, the Muslim girl surveyed the watersoaked floor, the crumped linens, the scattering of damp oats... Unwinding the sheet that covered her, the Muslim girl began her day's chores.

Madrigal walked carefully down the winding stone stairs, holding up her skirts with a hand. It was another of her new dresses; pale green, the color of new leaves in the spring, and decorated with carved wooden buttons and dark green ribbons threaded through the wide sleeves. 

She had begun exploring her new world. Mistress Meagan had welcomed her help in the sewing room, where she and her circle of women weaved, dyed and sewed the clothing that was used by the people of Inishown; Madrigal had even been persuaded to go to the barracks by a friendly kern, to entertain the soldiers with songs. 

In fact, they had given her a little harp to play on; it was her most treasured possession, aside from the necklace she had gotten from the Lady. She had also begun showing Shevaughn, the Hearth Chief, how to prepare some of the dishes of her former homeland using spices brought back by the Lady from her sojourn in Outremer. 

Madrigal had begun to think of Inishowen as home. And with that thought, another came... 

It had been three weeks since the monk's visit. Brother Ignatius, an ancient man with a fringe of silvery hair fluttering around his ears, had reminded Madrigal of a friendly bat - his enormous ears were nearly pointed and stuck out sharply on either side of his head; his beaky nose bent down at the end in an exaggerated curve. 

Brother Ignatius had prodded and poked, muttering under his breath, and at last pronounced Madrigal with child. The Muslim woman had hastened to explain to the holy man about her circumstances, hoping against all hope that he would have compassion for her dilemma. 

To her surprise, he had. 

''I'll no be tellin' a soul, so dinna fash yersel','' Ignatius had said, blue eyes twinkling. ''But ye'd best be thinkin' on how ta tell Lady Cathelin; ye'll be no more hidin' yer state, I'm thinkin', fer more than another month er two more.'' 

He had given her a pouch of herbs to make into a tea, to combat the baby-ill in the mornings. Madrigal had to admit that they helped greatly in calming her stomach. 

Unconsciously, her free hand went to her belly and she patted the growing bulge. My child, she thought, Allah has been kind. Now, my happiness would be complete if only He would visit his vengeance on another...

But she refused to finish the uncharitable thought. For the past three weeks, Sorcha O'Reilly had been intent on making the slave's life as miserable as possible. There were daily pranks - such as still-steaming horse droppings smeared on the bed after Madrigal had left the room to carry dirty sheets down to the laundry; or waiting until Madrigal had gone out on some errand and throwing rancid grease and stale piss all over floor. That had taken the Muslim nearly four hours of hard, down-on-her-knees labor to clean up. 

Madrigal had no proof, but she was sure it was the chatelaine's doing. Without such proof, however, she had no intention of telling the Lady anything. I do not want to destroy her faith in one of her servants, Madrigal thought, not unless the evidence is unclouded, so that her judgement may be also.

The Lady's nightmares still plagued her; when they did, Madrigal sang to her softly until the journey was past. Each morning, the slave awoke with her Lady's arms around her, a cascade of bone-straight crimson hair blending with her own blue-black. Often, Madrigal would lay awake unmoving, cherishing those few moments of utter safety and comfort in the gray dawn. 

The slave was so intent on her thoughts that she failed to notice the the smear of shiny grease midway down the stairs until it was too late... Her foot slipped, throwing off her balance. With a cry, she fell forward, instinctively trying to roll into a ball to protect her precious burden, tumbling down the unforgiving stone stairs... 

A blur of visions: flashes of stone; red-black sparks of pain; a servant's face seen upside down, his expression one of comical shock; the floor rising up in disjointed, naueasting leaps... 

With a crack, the back of Madrigal's head struck the last step, sending an explosion of agony down her spine... and then the peace of darkness and oblivion. The Muslim woman lay unconscious, a pitifully crumpled heap on the cold stone floor at the bottom of the stairs, blood staining the pale green dress she had worn so proudly a few moments ago. 
 

CHAPTER NINE

When Cathelin entered the Great Hall, she was whistling a jaunty tune, a brace of partridges slung over one shoulder. Her hair was half down, clothing ripped and stained, but her expression was one of triumph. She had gotten permission to hunt on one of her neighbor's lands, and her men had taken several bucks, wild boars and more. The meat was in the courtyard now being dressed, and Cathelin's mouth watered at the thought of a juicy haunch of venison for supper instead of mutton. 

The Irishwoman stopped dead when she heard the voice of Mistress Meagan raised in a bellowed shout, ''Dinna move her, ye lack-wits! Wait fer the litter, b'Christ!'' 

The partridges sailed through the air to fetch with a thump on the floor as Cathelin moved with inhuman swiftness to the source of that voice. At first, all she could see were the backs of the household servants standing in a rough semi-circle around something at the foot of the stairs... heart in her mouth, Cathelin roughly shoved them aside until she was clear and saw... 

Madrigal. Unconscious and obviously badly injured. That sweet face was papery white, lips slightly blue, and her breathing was labored and raspy. Meagan squatted next to her, trying to assess the girl's injuries with hands that shook slightly. 

Cathelin drew a deep breath and knelt down beside Madrigal. ''What happened?'' she asked Meagan, voice tightly controlled. 

The Scottish woman did not look up from her delicate probing of Madrigal's skull. ''I dinna know. One of the servants, Tom Swann, saw it happen. He says she just fell.'' 

Cathelin's molten amber eyes narrowed and sought out the unfortunate witness; he gulped, prominent Adam's apple bobbing up and down. ''Well?'' she growled. 

Swann gulped again. ''Aye, Lady,'' he said nervously, ''t'is as I told the Mistress. She was walkin' down the stairs, and all of a sudden-like, she just fell down. I swear it.'' 

Meagan finished her examination. ''The girl's skull's no cracked that I can tell, but she's had quite a fall. I've sent fer Brother Ignatius; she's got broke ribs and I don't know what all else. We'd best be careful.'' 

Cathelin nodded agreement. ''Where's that litter?'' she asked the crowd in general, who gave a collective shudder at the tightly reigned rage in her voice. Almost immediately, a litter appeared, carried by two men. 

Carefully, paying heed to Meagan's instructions and feeling their Lady's hot gaze on their backs, the men loaded the unconscious slave, and began carrying her up the stairway. Halfway up, one of the men slipped and nearly fell, but caught himself in time to keep Madrigal from tumbling off the litter. 

His ruddy face paled in fear as Cathelin flowed up beside him. She bent down and wiped one finger across the step... the expression on her face reminded him of a wolf's - lean and narrow and lusting for blood. 

Not trusting herself to speak, Cathelin nodded for the men to continue, then caught Meagan's arm when the woman passed. ''Grease,'' she said shortly. 

Meagan caught her breath. ''Sweet Mary and Joseph!'' she whispered. ''Who?'' 

Cathelin shook her head. ''I don't know, but by God, I intend to find out. And when I do...'' 

Meagan shuddered at the promise of slow, agonizing death in Lady Cathelin's amber eyes. ''The lass'll be all right,'' she said, patting the other woman's arm. ''I'm sure of it.'' 

Cathelin's expression was bleak. ''She had better be,'' she replied harshly, then turned and walked up the stairs heavily, hands shaking and teeth clenched so hard her jaw hurt. If anything happens to my Madri, she thought savagely, the tortures of Castille will NOT equal what I'll be doing to whoever responsible - aye, and with my own hands, too! 

The servants watched their mistress with heavy hearts. Most of them had gotten to know the sweet Muslim girl, and although a few still disapproved, the majority had come to like her for her sunny ways and friendly smile. She was always willing to lend a hand at any task, had a way about her that was completely disarming, and the other servants prayed for her recovery with compassion and pity. 

But one pair of cold green eyes watched with ill-concealed glee... and a pair of thin lips stretched into a tiny, triumphant smile. 

Sorcha O'Reilly slipped out the postern gate behind Inishowen and ran through the kitchen garden to the stable. Once there, she coaxed a wild maned mare to allow her to mount bareback, then she rode away, dark brown cloak flying back behind her like ragged wings. 

Six miles away lay her destination - a cliff that overhung the pounding sea. The cliff face on the landward side was riddled with caves, and it was to one of these that she pounded up, the mare's sides flecked with foam. 

Sorcha slid from the horse's back and ran lightly to the cave mouth. ''My Lord?'' she asked, peering into the darkness. ''T'is Sorcha.'' 

A ragged figure appeared in front of her. Francis Westfield was no longer the spoiled, finely dressed lordling he had been. His beard had grown wild and straggled across his face;  hazel eyes sunk deeply into bruised sockets; his frame gaunt, mere whipcord over bone. But his eyes burned with a mesmerizing fire - a look Cathelin would have instantly recognized. It was the madness of a fanatic, and Lord Francis' hatred of his cousin had become an obsession that had pushed him well beyond the bounds of sanity. 

''Well?'' he rasped. 

Sorcha drew a breath, excitement warring with fear in her breast. Since his exile, Lord Francis had become a figure of infinite fascination for the chatelaine; not the least because the vengeance he labored for had become her own. ''T'is done. The wench is dead.'' 

''Good,'' Francis nodded. ''How?'' 

Sorcha reached up and patted a blonde braid. ''I greased a step. T'was a simple enough doing. It'll be thought an accident; all the castle knows how careless the chit was, popping up and down the stairs all blessed day..'' 

Francis took a step forward and grabbed Sorcha's arm in a steely grip that made the woman shudder in pain... and arousal. ''And Cathelin?,'' he asked, tongue flicking out to moisten his dry lips. 

''I wish you could have seen her face, my Lord. Why, she was paler than new curd, that one. Being deprived o' her bed wench should set the high and mighty Lady back a notch or two.'' 

''Excellent.'' Francis roughly pulled Sorcha to his chest and kissed her savagely, deliberately hurting her, then released her with a sneer. 

Sorcha stumbled back, one hand to her bloody lip. Her green eyes were dark with fear - and desire. ''Aye, my Lord,'' she said huskily, then flowed up to press her full breasts against him. ''And how goes your own venture?'' 

Francis idly toyed with one of Sorcha's blonde braids. ''Well enough,'' he replied. ''I've gotten some like-minded men who agree that Blacksunne needs to be taken down. In a few months, we'll strike.'' His hazel eyes narrowed. ''Are you sure the slave's dead?'' he asked with mock casualness. 

''Oh, still breathin' she was when I left, but I doubt that'll last for long,'' Sorcha replied airily, tilting her face back for another kiss. 

Instead, Francis gathered her long braids in both of his hands and twisted them brutally, wringing a smothered yelp from the woman. ''Did I not tell you to be sure?'' he asked in a dangerously calm tone. 

''Aye, my Lord, aye! But I came straight away to tell you...'' Sorcha's green eyes were filled with tears. 

''Go back,'' he commanded, emphasizing each word with a yank, ''Go back and make sure! That bitch has to die, do you hear me? She has to die!'' 

Francis reserved a small portion of his hatred towards the slave he considered had betrayed him. When Sorcha had first told him of how Madrigal had not only been freed, but raised to household status, he'd nearly choked on bile; since then, the chatelaine's acidic reports of Cathelin's and Madrigal's growing closeness had made the flames of anger burn even hotter. Sorcha believed the two were lovers - and so did Francis. The thought of his slave finding happiness in his cousin's arms was more than Francis could sanely bear. 

If I could, he thought, ignoring the blonde woman's agonized protests, I would take my little slave and teach her a few lessons in humility. Too bad she wouldn't live long enough to learn everything I want to teach her.

''Please, my Lord!'' Sorcha screeched, trying to fall on her knees but prevented by Francis' grip on her hair, ''Please! I'll go, I'll go!'' 

Francis released her, and Sorcha fell to the ground, her head aching and scalp raw. ''See to it, my beloved,'' he said with another sneer, ''I want that heathen whore dead by nightfall.'' 

''Aye, my Lord,'' Sorcha answered, rubbing the top of her head, ''She'll not breathe another moment after I return. And then, shall I be coming to you again? P'raps tonight?'' The blonde woman's voice held a note of eagerness; she relished Francis' lovemaking - it was violent and passionate, filled with a pain she found arousing beyond anything she'd ever known. 

Francis paused on his way back to the cave. Without turning around, he replied, ''Yes,'' and then disappeared back into his sanctuary. 

Sorcha climbed back aboard the mare, more determined than ever to see the slave girl buried... and Cathelin writhing beneath a burden of hurt that could well nigh crush her. The chatelaine laughed softly to herself as she wrenched the mare's head around and started back to Inishowen. Aye, she thought, a small smile twisting her lips. The Lady will know what it is like to be deprived of the one she loves this very night! 

The pounding of the mare's hooves echoed for a long time after Sorcha had gone, intent on her murderous errand.

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