CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The scene at DaDerga on that brilliant spring morn was more like a country fair than a serious contest at arms. 

There were vendors of small fried cakes dripping with honey; women with trays around their necks who sold ribbons, lace and small fairing rings of silver and brass; alewives broached casks and cried their wares, which were bought eagerly by the crowds of people who had gathered on the O'Brian lands to see the great duel. 

Pavilions had been set up near the lists, bright multi-colored tents crowned by snapping pennants, each with a pole set up in front that bore different clan's standards, for the word had gone 'round with lightning speed, and many friends and foes of both the O'Cameron and the O'Brian had come to witness this momentous affair, and to pay their respects (whether sincerely or not) to the King. 

A minstrel wandered the grounds, singing from the poet Blathmac's telling of the crucifixion of Christ: 

Madrigal, seated on a bench, said sullenly, ''I have begged you not to do this thing, Lady Cat. I have gotten on my knees and pleaded. And still you go.'' 

Cathelin crossed the tent and crouched down beside Madrigal, laying a hand on her thigh. ''My sweetling,'' she said with an earnest frown, ''can you not understand still? There is none but myself who can do this thing. I cannot, in honor, ask another to stand in my place; as Lord of Inishowen, it is my duty to answer this challenge and hazard my body against the O'Brian's. With the help of God and the saints, I'll be nailing his head to the doorpost of Inishowen yet.'' 

Madrigal caressed Cathelin's cheek, giving her a sad look. ''I fear you will die, Lady Cat. My blood grows cold; my heart is like a stone. I will not live without you.'' 

''Say not such things, Madri!'' Cathelin exclaimed. ''T'is a mortal sin even to think of suicide, much less commit it! B'sides, if you were to kill yourself, sweetling, you'd have no place beside me in the family vault and I'd miss you sorely.'' She smiled. ''Even if I will have to bribe the priests in my will to allow a heathen to be buried in holy ground.'' 

Madrigal sucked in a breath, dark purple eyes shimmering with tears. ''May Allah protect you and preserve you, my beloved,'' she said in softly slurred Arabic. ''May the light of the sun go out before the light of your life fades.'' She leaned forward and gently kissed Cathelin's lips. 

''I will come back to thee, Madrigal,'' Cathelin replied, also in Arabic. ''Even though the Dark Angel itself shall bar the way, I swear I will come back to thee.'' 

They kissed, a desperate intermingling of breath and life, clutching one another tightly, as if it were the last time they would be permitted to touch. Finally, Madrigal broke away with a gasp. ''I must go, Lady Cat,'' she said, dabbing at her eyes with one hand. ''You will need to get prepared. I will be watching and praying for your safety.'' 

She pulled a silk scarf from the sleeve of her poppy-red gown and laid the colorfully embroidered length in Cathelin's hands. ''Wear my favor, beloved. And know that no matter what happens - I will always love you.'' 

She kissed Cathelin's cheek, then stood and hurried out of the tent, unwilling to allow her Lady to see her cry. She has enough troubles, Madrigal thought as she walked slowly to the benches that had been set up for spectators, wiping streaming tears from her cheeks. I do not wish to add to her burden of worry.

After Madrigal left the tent, Cathelin lifted the gossamer scarf to her crooked nose and sniffed gently, closing her eyes, letting her love's special scent waft over her, then she stood and called for her squire, Thomas, to help her into the armor of Blacksunne. 

Madrigal's place as the mate of the O'Cameron clan chief was directly in front of Eithne O'Brian; and, incidentally, near King John as well, who sat in a chair on the highest tier above the two women, shaded by a length of satin and attended to by servants. 

Madrigal settled down in her seat, ignoring the dark-haired woman of her Lady's enemy, and held out her arms to Crimthan. ''Give me Honey,'' she said, and the little girl was soon seated in her mother's lap. ''Crimthan, you hold Dragon and make sure he does not wander off!'' 

Dragon squirmed in Crimthan's lap. ''Go! Go there!'' he demanded, pointing with a small finger down to the grassy green field where the tourney would take place. A horizontal pole ran down the length of the field; this would hopefully prevent the two opponent's horses from crashing into one another. 

Crimthan began speaking to distract Dragon. ''Know what will happen, little one?'' The toddler shook his head, black hair flying. ''Well, then,'' the nurse said, ''your mathra an' a man named O'Brian are goin' to fight today.'' 

''Fight?'' Dragon immediately perked up; the hero's tales Crimthan told him were his favorites; and to his child's mind, the bloodier, the better. 

''Mmm-hmmm. First, they'll joust wit' lances down there,'' she continued, nodding to the lists. ''They'll keep doin' that till one of them's unhorsed. Then, if th' downed knight wishes to continue, they'll draw swords an' fight till one or th' other yields. Yer mathra, since th' English King is here, will fight as Blacksunne, but we all know t'will be her.'' 

Honey was listening, too. ''Mathra fight?'' she asked Madrigal. 

''Yes, Honey. Your mathra is going to fight today. With the help of God, she will have a great victory, and then we will go home and have a feast to celebrate.'' 

Madrigal hugged her daughter. She and Cathelin had agreed that the children would be raised as Christians, and although she had some misgivings, she realized that her own position as a Muslim in a Christian household was an extraordinary one. No one made much of it, but she knew she still received a few disapproving glances from the village folk from time to time. She did not want her children stigmatized in the country of their birth because of religion. 

Honey put a finger in her mouth, emerald green eyes fixed on the field, a small sweaty hand absently clutching her mother's arm. She wore a little dress of gold-dyed linen, embroidered by Madrigal in a pattern of pheasant's feathers; her brother's dress was identical, for he was not considered old enough to wear trousers. 

Eithne almost curled her lip at this domestic display, and shifted in her seat until her profile was turned away from the barbarian woman and her bastards. From the corner of her eye, she could see King John, swilling blood-red wine and chatting with his loathsome councilor, William the Widowmaker - so named by the O'Brian folk because they thought of him as a poisonous spider crouching in the center of a web, waiting patiently for prey. 

Her husband, Desmond, was down in his tent on the field. Eithne bit her lower lip lightly between her teeth. She had been discreet, she knew that. Desmond did not suspect she was having an affair with the King, and DaDerga's servants knew better than to betray her with wagging tongues. 

John had been attentive, true. But although she'd cast aside all inhibitions and played the wanton in the King's bedchamber, he'd given her nothing more than vague promises. Eithne worried that her ambitions would not be fulfilled by this weakling King, but... I must try, she thought. John is a fool, willing to be led by a woman's honeypot waved beneath his nose. I'll be a queen yet, for is not my blood good enough for royalty?

William of Northanger cast a worried frown in Eithne's direction. ''Is Your Majesty certain of this?'' he asked. 

''Yes,'' John replied, sucking the sweet flesh from a purple grape and tossing the empty skin aside. ''Lady Eithne's a fiery wench, t'is true. But to bring an Irish baggage to Court would be folly. No, let her stay behind with her husband when we return to London. Give her this when we've gone.'' John pulled a large gold ring set with precious amber from his finger. ''A token of my good will and affection.'' 

William sighed, tucking the ring inside his tunic. ''As Your Majesty wishes,'' he said. ''And if the husband dies?'' 

John turned in his seat so he was fully facing the Duke. ''If O'Brian dies,'' he said, ''then I will have DaDerga and the Kinslainne lands.'' He looked smug. ''Did you not have the Earl sign over possession of his title and lands to the Crown when we agreed to assist him secretly?'' 

''Yes.'' William looked pleased as well; it had been his masterstroke to insist on the illiterate Earl signing a formal agreement, lying to Desmond about the contents. If Desmond O'Brian died, the demesne of Kinslainne would revert to the Crown - and if Cathelin O'Cameron died, then John would be given ownership of Inishowen from the grateful Earl. Either way, thanks to his devious councilor, the King would win and the throne of England enriched by prime Irish lands. 

King John chuckled and gestured for another cup of wine. 

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Desmond's squire Henry adjusted another bolt on his blue-steel armor. ''If you'll turn this way, m'Lord,'' he said, eyes intent on his task, ''I'll adjust your shoulder vambrace. Then we'll have the helmet.'' 

The Earl allowed Henry to do his job, brooding about the coming duel. O'Cameron had a reputation as a fine fighter on the battlefield, as well as on the tourney lists as Sir Blacksunne. But he was skilled as well; two equally matched opponents would fight that day, and only the judgment of God would say who was the better. 

Henry picked up Desmond's helmet, the top decorated by foaming egret feathers dyed stark forest green. The Earl took a quick swallow of well-watered wine from a cup, then Henry fitted the helmet to the collar of his armor, fastening it down tight; a fresh cloth pad had been inserted that morning to soak up the man's sweat, for although the day was not hot, a fully armored man either froze or burned depending on the weather. When he was ready, the squire placed Desmond's surcoat of green velvet over him, making sure the silver boar badge was prominent on the shoulder of the garment. 

''There you are, my Lord,'' the squire said, fastening a belt around Desmond's hips and thrusting his two-handed broadsword into the gilded leather scabbard. ''Shall I have Padraigh bring up your destrier?'' 

''Aye, and tell that damned groom to make sure Strife's been fitted with the new bit,'' the Earl said, his voice muffled behind the visor of his helmet. ''Get the mounting block and have my herald ready to make the announcement.'' 

Desmond strode from the tent, his body encased in steel, confident in his heart that he would win and gain both revenge and the favor of the King. Standing outside, he looked up and saw his wife, Eithne, in the stands. 

Before he could raise a gauntleted hand in greeting; however, to his shock he saw her move up to the King's tier, and watched the King's beringed hand laid familiarly on the back of his wife's skirt... and saw she did not protest, but laughed and kissed John on the lips. 

Desmond's mind reeled. Eithne and John the Bastard? Suddenly, a hundred insignificant details - glances, touches, hushed conversations - came together in his mind, and his face darkened to an ugly hue. 

His squire Henry's face swam before him. ''My Lord? All is ready, if you'll come and mount.'' 

Without a word, Desmond turned and followed Henry, a slow, steady rage igniting in his heart. Blinking back tears, he said roughly, ''Henry, after the duel is over, I'll be wanting my smallsword from the tent.'' 

''Aye, my Lord.'' Henry wondered a bit; what would the Earl need with his smallsword? But it wasn't a servant's place to question his Lord's whims, so Henry merely helped Desmond mount the war-trained Strife, and soon forgot that he had wondered at all. 

The two knights faced one another at opposite ends of the lists; Blacksunne in her ebony-chased armor and peacock blue surcoat, the golden sun badge upon her shoulder, a silken scarf wound around her upper right arm. She held a long wooden lance easily, the butt balanced in her stirrup, a shield with the phoenix symbol of the O'Cameron's strapped to her left arm. Cathelin was mounted on her own destrier, Shaitan - a coal-colored stallion who pranced uneasily until she booted him hard in the shoulder. Together, horse and rider presented a nightmarish symphony of ominous black. 

Strife, the O'Brian's stallion, suddenly screamed and reared as the scent of a rival horse caught his attention. The warhorse was the color of heavy cream, mottled with light gray, and his mane had been roached and decorated with trailing green ribbons. Desmond, cursing, managed to bring Strife back down to a sweating, eye-rolling standstill, and waved off the grooms who had come running to help. 

As the challenger, the Earl had the right to formally announce his grievances first. His herald, wearing the O'Brian livery, pranced out onto the lists, mounted on a dainty roan mare, and blew a series of notes from his trumpet. ''Hear ye, hear ye!'' the herald called, getting the full attention of the onlookers. ''Know that the Earl of Kinslainne, Desmond O'Brian, clan chief of the O'Brians, hereby announces to the gathered people and to His Majesty the King, the crimes of Cathelin O'Cameron, chief of the O'Cameron clan.'' 

Unrolling a scroll, the herald read the already familiar litany of so-called ''crimes,'' ending with, ''... and so, the Earl of Kinslainne has challenged the O'Cameron to a duel muscular, the defeated to lose title and claim to all lands, chattel and goods therein contained within the particular demesne. It has been so agreed. The duel will continue until one of the opponents has yielded, cannot continue due to injury, or dies. May God lend the might!'' The herald departed the field. 

Now it was the O'Cameron herald's turn. This was Becca, mounted on her own gray gelding and proudly wearing a phoenix badge on her crimson tunic. 

She lifted the ancient ivory horn of the clan to her lips and blew a series of crystalline notes, then said loudly, ''Cathelin O'Cameron, Lady of Inishowen and Chief of the Name of the O'Cameron clan, denies these foul lies and half-truths. Further, she cries insult upon the O'Brian for a dishonorable attack upon Inishowen after the Earl's challenge was accepted. The O'Brian is unchivalrous and unworthy to be called a knight. The conditions of the duel are accepted, and the Lady's champion, Sir Blacksunne, will prove the O'Cameron's right and avenge her good name and reputation. May God lend the might!'' 

Becca kicked her gelding lightly to urge the horse towards the stands. Facing the King directly, she said, ''Your Majesty.'' The kern-turned-herald kneed her horse, and as she had painstakingly trained, it sank down into a bow that made the onlookers gasp with delight. Urging the gelding back to its feet, Becca continued, ''The Lady Cathelin makes further announcement that Lugh O'Brian, half-brother of the Earl of Kinslainne, having been declared fudir and daer-fudir by the O'Brian, has agreed to adoption within the O'Cameron clan.'' 

Becca's face split into a huge grin at the look of shock on Eithne O'Brian's face. She turned her mount's head and rode lightly back to the O'Cameron tent, wishing she could be a fly on the wall when the Earl and his Lady discussed that development. 

And after that, it was time for the duel to begin. 
 

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Cathelin crouched down in the saddle, lance extended in front of her, braced against her side, her shield held slightly tilted. Shaitan quivered beneath her as if gathering himself, eager to begin the day's contest. 

From behind the bars of her visor, she could see Desmond O'Brian, her enemy. The man who had tried to take her lands; who had tried to kill her people; who had wanted to take her wife and children and life. 

She licked her lips and her field of vision narrowed until all she could see was the armored figure of the knight in front of her. She snarled, barely feeling the ache in her stomach as her wound throbbed. 

With a brazen blast of trumpets, the duel was begun. 

Clapping heels to Shaitan's sides and wailing a shrill warcry, Cathelin pounded up the lists, eyes squeezed into slits as she concentrated on the slightly bobbing point of the O'Brian's lance. 

With a crash, the two knights met and thundered past one another, leaving lances shattered into splinters in their wake. 

Cathelin sucked in a breath as she automatically turned Shaitan and trotted back to her end of the field, stars sparkling in her vision. The O'Brian's lance had hit her shield dead center, and it was only the strength of her legs gripping the horse's sides that had kept her in the saddle at all. 

Accepting a fresh lance from her squire, Thomas, Cathelin readied to charge again. The trumpet blasted and the pair came at one another, each determined to see the other upon the ground. 

Up in the stands, Madrigal watched, heart in her mouth, as Cathelin was rocked back in the saddle on the first pass. Oh, Allah, she prayed silently, protect my beloved Lady Cat.

Honey watched intently, but Dragon, who was easily bored, squirmed around in Crimthan's lap, the nurse not noticing because her eyes were riveted to the field. 

The little boy smiled at Eithne over Crimthan's shoulder. ''Pretty lady,'' he said. 

Eithne ignored Dragon but knew the child had spoken to her. She was seated at the King's feet, nibbling from a platter of sweetmeats given to her by a servant. 

Dragon, eyeing the treats, decided he wanted some, too. ''Me!'' he said, pointing at the platter in Eithne's hands. ''Give me!'' Then, remembering the manners that his mother, mathra and nurse had tried to drill into him, he added, ''Please.'' 

Eithne looked at the little boy, the son of her husband's enemy. A bastard of no name, as far as she was concerned, and as far beneath her as the earth from the moon. ''Silence, child,'' she said in a hard tone. She was still considering the impact Lugh's adoption into the O'Cameron clan would have on her own position, and wanted time in silence to think some more. 

Madrigal did not notice this exchange, being intent on watching the field. On the second pass, O'Brian's lance missed entirely, but Cathelin's struck him in the breastplate and shattered; the Earl desperately tossed his lance away to grab the reins of his steed with both hands in order to keep his seat. 

The opponents trotted back for fresh lances and Dragon looked slyly at Crimthan's face. The woman was absorbed entirely in what was going on in front of her, so the little boy slipped quietly off of her lap and climbed up to Eithne's tier, intent on those sweetmeats. 

Reaching Eithne, he stopped and grinned charmingly, dark curls fluttering around his face. ''Pretty lady,'' he said. ''Please... me have?'' Sticking out his hand, he laboriously folded down all his fingers save one. ''This many?'' It was a ploy he'd often used, having learned that asking for more than one treat often resulted in no treats at all. 

Eithne stared at him coldly. ''Go away, brat,'' she said. ''Go back to your sluttish whore of a mother.'' 

Dragon didn't understand the words, but he certainly understood Eithne's hostile tone. Thrusting out his bottom lip, he said belligerently, ''You bad lady! You g'way!'' 

Eithne was abruptly filled with rage. That her own sweet Robert should die, and this... this... this son of a heathen slave by a madman should live was suddenly more than she could take. She snatched up the platter and threw it hard, straight at Dragon, saying in a poisonous whisper, ''Take it, brat! And may you choke on every morsel!'' 

The heavy silver platter struck Dragon in the chest and he fell over, toppling from the tier with a wail, bouncing and rolling down several benches before lying still in a small, pitiful heap, horrified onlookers rising and staring at the boy, murmuring in shock. 

Eithne stared, panting, gray eyes wide. She hadn't meant to harm the child, not like that. 

Madrigal, hearing Dragon's cry, leaped to her feet and, putting the protesting Honey down on her seat, hurried down the tiers, followed closely by Crimthan. 

Kneeling down beside her son, Madrigal laid a hand on his chest, and was reassured that he was still breathing. A shout from the crowd made her look up, just in time to see Cathelin fall heavily from her horse with a crash of black armor and lie still. As still as their child, as still as her own suddenly quiet heart.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Cathelin tried to catch her breath. O'Brian's lance had knocked her squarely out of the saddle on their fourth pass. As she lay there, gasping, the Earl called out, ''Do you yield?'' 

Cathelin sucked in a breath and yelled, ''Never!'' She somehow managed to roll over on her side and get to her feet, swaying slightly. Sparkles of light danced in her vision, and she could feel a trickle of something wet and warm running down her leg. 

Must be blood, she thought, ignoring the agony of her reopened gut wound, for I know I didn't piss myself. Drawing her sword with a hiss of steel, she waited, watching Desmond as his squire and several grooms helped him dismount. Her armor had never been so heavy, so bulky, and she felt as if she were moving in slow motion. 

Desmond drew his own sword and advanced. He'd hoped her wounded, perhaps even a broken arm or leg. If the O'Cameron had surrendered, he'd have had his victory and his revenge, too. I'd have tossed her out on her ear, he thought, and let her roam as a beggar for a while before I gave her the mercy of death. And I'd have taken her wife as well, and killed her children before her eyes.

Even so, he said to himself as he circled his opponent, I will have her head this day. He saw she was favoring one side of her body and made a mental note to concentrate on her weak point. 

Cathelin bunched the muscles in her arm to keep her sword up. It was difficult; sweat was running into her eyes and she blinked the stinging salt away. 

With a roar, Desmond attacked, raining a series of blows down at Cathelin, who blocked some and accepted others even as she sought to penetrate a joint of his armor. She managed to slam a blow to his knee that made him wince, but the flat of his sword banged against her side, a stunning blow that made her whistle in pain. 

They disengaged, circling one another. Then Cathelin came at the Earl, slapping his sword aside with her shield and cutting deeply into the inside elbow joint of his armor. She was gratified when his shield arm hung limply, blood trickling from the fingertips of his gauntlet. She backed away, dodging his return stroke but not quick enough to avoid a ringing blow to her helmet that made her eyes water. 

Desmond's arm was broken, he knew it; and deeply cut besides. But he was beyond pain; behind his visor, his dark eyes were filled with nothing but the flames of hate and rage - his dead son, his unfaithful wife, the whispers of the clanfolk following his disastrous alliance with Francis Westfield at the Battle of the Trees. For an instant, Desmond O'Brian went mad. 

With a guttural scream, he ran at Cathelin, sword upraised, determined to end this contest and kill the woman he blamed for all his ills. 

Cathelin knew she had strength enough for only one more pass. As the Earl came at her, she dropped to one knee, shield at throat level. He came close and his sword swung down at her head; the Irishwoman grunted and using every muscle in her body, simultaneously rammed her shield into his crotch and swung her sword out broadly to the side, bringing it whistling back to embed itself in O'Brian's thigh, cutting through armor, flesh and bone as if they were nothing but clouds and mist. 

His leg nearly severed, Desmond dropped to the ground, unable even to scream, his sword flying from his hand to land behind Cathelin, who laboriously got to her feet. 

O'Brian's herald and some guardsmen ran out onto the field, but kept at a discreet distance when Cathelin wrenched her sword out of the Earl's leg, prompting a hoarse cry, and waved the bloody steel in their direction. 

Using her sword as a prop, she limped closer until she stood over Desmond. With the back of her hand, she raised her visor, golden eyes stared down into his. ''Do you yield, O'Brian?'' she rasped wearily. 

''No...'' Desmond looked up at her, into eyes that held no hatred, only pain and bone-deep weariness. ''No...'' 

Cathelin shrugged. ''Then I'll wait,'' she replied hoarsely. ''You'll bleed to death soon, I'm thinking.'' Cathelin waited a moment, then continued earnestly, ''Come, man! It's over! God had judged and you've lost. Yield and at least keep your life, and make not a widow of your wife.'' 

Desmond closed his eyes. He could feel his life draining out of him with every beat of his heart. Suddenly, he wanted to live - for revenge and hatred still pounded more strongly than his pulse. ''I yield,'' he croaked, then repeated louder, ''I yield me! I yield to the mercy of O'Cameron and the judgment of God!'' 

Cathelin motioned the guardsmen closer so they could attend to the Earl's hurts, and everyone ignored the roaring of the crowd's approval. As one of the men peeled off the leg section of Desmond's armor to apply a tourniquet, she said, ''Shall I summon a priest?'' 

The Earl licked his lips. ''No. Just leave me in peace.'' 

''As you wish.'' Cathelin inclined her head, then began to walk away, but before she'd gone more than a few steps, the lightness in her head overwhelmed her, and she sank down to her knees. 

Becca ran up. Tilting back Cathelin's visor, she assessed her Lady's pale lips and white face. ''Ho, a litter!'' she called over her shoulder. Looking at Cathelin with concern, she continued, ''Is it your gut wound, Lady?'' 

Eyes scanning the silently suffering woman, she noticed dark blood running from the heel of her armored foot. ''Jesus!'' Becca murmured. ''Don't worry, Lady. Brother Sebastian is here, he'll take care of it.'' 

Cathelin nodded, lips pressed tightly together to contain her sudden nausea. When the litter arrived, she went without a murmur. 

Dragon lay so unnaturally silent and still, it was all Madrigal could do to keep from snatching her child up and shaking him, demanding hysterically that he WAKE UP! She shook her head, trying to control herself. 

Crimthan, lips drawn tight, was running her hands over his limp body, probing him with gentle fingers, trying to determine if he had any broken bones. ''His arms an' legs seem aright,'' she said in a worried tone. ''But where's that healer?'' 

Madrigal looked up, noticing that Cathelin was being carried off the field in a litter, as was Desmond O'Brian. She had to restrain herself from leaping to her feet and racing down to see if her Lady Cat was all right. I hear no mourning, she thought. Perhaps she is not badly injured.

Her heart was torn; Madrigal wanted to wring her hands and weep, wanted desperately to be at Lady Cat's side, but could not, dared not, until she knew if Dragon was all right. 

If I went to her and told her this thing without knowing the outcome, it would cause her grief and great distress. So, I must wait. But it was the hardest thing she'd ever had to do. 

King John rose behind them, and the crowd fell silent as they waited for his announcement. 

''We declare the winner of this contest to be Sir Blacksunne, champion of Lady Cathelin O'Cameron,'' he said in a clear tone that carried to every ear. ''It is our decree that this feud betwixt O'Cameron and O'Brian hath been clearly judged by the Lord our God, and all grievances answered by Him and Him alone. We pray these two houses may once again befriend one another in the true spirit of honor and chivalry.'' King John sat back down again, ignoring Eithne, who sat at his feet and shivered. 

A young monk pushed his way through the crowds. ''Brother Alwyn,'' he said curtly, kneeling down beside Crimthan and pushing up the sleeves of his black robe. Without any further ado, Brother Alwyn began his own examination of Dragon, clucking his tongue and muttering under his breath. When he finished, he sat back on his heels and sighed. 

Madrigal held her breath as she waited for his verdict. 

''The boy's had the wind knocked out of him,'' the monk said. ''His limbs and spine are intact, as is his head.'' Alwyn pointed to a red mark on Dragon's chest. ''This will leave a bruise but it's not serious. You should get him out of the sun, into a cool dark place; when he wakes, give him only a little water, no food. If he vomits or is dizzy, send someone to fetch me.'' 

Madrigal felt dizzy herself, but she managed to give Alwyn a shaky smile. ''My thanks, honored brother,'' she began, only to be cut off when the monk rose. 

''Do not thank me, harlot,'' he said severely, looking down his nose at Madrigal with sheer contempt, ''Thank the Lord by repenting of your sinful, heathen ways, doing penance and acknowledging the One True God.'' 

Before a stunned Madrigal could respond, Alwyn left. 

Crimthan tossed back a lock of her orange hair. ''That one'll ne'er get into Heaven wit' that attitude,'' she spat. Seeing the look of confusion on Madrigal's face, she continued more gently, ''Well, then, Lady. I'll carry wee Dragon down ta Lady Cathelin's tent, fer I'm thinkin' t'would be fairly peaceful there. T'is too far ta go fer our own guesting tents. D'ye wish ta come an' bring Honey as well?'' 

Madrigal suddenly felt exhausted. Her brain was reeling; if she heard Crimthan's question, she did not acknowledge it. ''I must go to Lady Cat,'' she replied flatly. ''Do what you wish.'' 

With that, Madrigal started walking down the tiers towards the field, leaving a confused Crimthan behind. 
 

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Inside his own tent, Desmond sweated and swore at the chirugeon who had been hastily summoned. 

''I'll not be having my leg off!'' he shouted. ''Do what you must, man, but I'll not be carved on like a Yuletide goose!'' 

The chirugeon shook his head. ''But my Lord,'' he said, ''if I don't amputate, either you'll bleed to death or the leg will rot. The bone's in so many pieces... do you want to die? That's a mortal sin, you know.'' 

The Earl fumed. The pain in his leg was as nothing compared to the flaming agony in his soul. He had surrendered, yielded his honor and good name to the one person in this world he hated more than anyone else, and he had only done it to preserve his life a little while longer. 

For while he hated Cathelin, what he felt for his wife Eithne and the duplicitous King was only a little less strong. 

''Leave me!'' Desmond said. When the chirugeon began to argue, the Earl waved him away. ''Go! Just get out!'' 

As the chirugeon left, Desmond motioned to Henry. ''Where's my smallsword?'' 

Henry was puzzled. ''Your smallsword, my Lord?'' He gulped. ''Why'd you be wanting that?'' 

''Never mind why.'' Desmond gritted his teeth against a surge of searing pain. ''Just fetch it and give it to me.'' An arm was bound across his chest in a cloth sling, the bone roughly set by one of his men. Already, the bandage around the cut on that arm was crimson and dripping. 

Fearfully, Henry did as he was bid. When Desmond held the sword tightly in the fist of his good hand, he said, ''You're to go up to the stands and ask my ladywife to attend me, as well as the King. I've important things to tell them both. A deathbed confession. Do you understand?'' 

''Aye, my Lord.'' Henry decided the Earl's mind had become unhinged, and he hesitated until Desmond roared, ''Now, man! I've not much time!'' 

With rolling eyes, Henry fled. 

When he was alone, Desmond managed to raise himself into a sitting position, although he felt himself getting weaker by the second. A tourniquet had been applied to his leg, but he was still losing blood. 

Just a few moments longer, he said to himself as he struggled to stay conscious. Just a few moments longer... 

Eithne stared as the nurse carefully picked up the little boy and carried him down, followed by another woman - Emer, Duchess of Scartanore and wife of Duke Lleu mac Daire- who carried a little girl in her arms, Madrigal drifting behind the two women as they headed for the O'Cameron's tent. Eithne's peat-gray eyes marked their progress across the field with something approaching relief. 

No one saw me, Eithne thought. No one saw what I did to that little boy. I'm safe from that charge at least. She wrenched her mind away from the memory of Dragon lying motionless. Now I must see to my future.

She rose and smoothed her skirts, flashing a look at John. ''My husband's sore wounded,'' she said. ''If he lives, he'll like as not lose that leg and be unfit to lead the clan.'' She waited, sure that John would offer to take her back to London, install her in the Court, and eventually, when Desmond died as he surely would, make her his Queen and his wife. 

King John nodded. ''So we have seen. You have our condolences, Lady Eithne. To lose a son, and then a husband... we shall surely remember you in our prayers.'' 

It was his tone that alerted her; it was lazy, almost bored. Eithne suddenly realized that the King had no further use for her; rather than being besotted by her charms, he was dismissing her as if she meant absolutely nothing to him. Rage simmered up; rage and outraged shock. She'd sacrificed her honor to John and now he intended to drop her like roasted earth apple! 

She opened her mouth, prepared to screech like a fishwife, but William the Widowmaker was at her side, whispering urgently in her ear, ''Remember your place, woman,'' he  murmured, ''and take this as surety of the King's affections.'' He pressed the heavy gold ring into her hand and walked back to his place at the King's side. 

Eithne stared at the ring and her mouth closed with a click. Now she understood fully what she had been to John. This was her payment, as if she were a common whore. She looked at John with gray eyes that were as full of hatred as a stormcloud of lightnings; his personal guards moved closer to the King, as if responding to a threat. 

Desmond's squire, Henry, reached Eithne and gave her a sketchy bow. He was panting from his race across the field and up the terraced benches. ''My Lady,'' he said, gasping for breath, ''your husband, the Earl, wishes you to attend him in his tent. And His Majesty as well.'' 

William of Northanger's dark eyes pierced the squire. ''What does the Earl want of the King?'' he asked. 

Henry's eyes widened further. He was not accustomed to being in the presence of those of such high rank, but he managed to squeak, ''A deathbed confession, m'Lord. T'is what the Earl said.'' 

Without a word, Eithne turned around in a swirl of skirts and headed down the tiers. King John considered a moment, then rose. ''We will attend the Earl,'' he said, ''as a mark of our royal favor. Do you go ahead of us, sirrah, and announce our coming.'' 

Henry bobbed his head, then tore back down to the field, overtaking Eithne and quickly disappearing into Desmond's tent. King John and Duke William followed at a more discreet pace, ringed around with armed guardsmen. 

''Why do this at all, Your Majesty?'' William asked. 

The King gave his councilor a slight smile. ''If O'Brian is dying, I want to tell him what else he's lost this day. And to thank him for the use of his wife during my stay at DaDerga.'' 

William gave John a sharp glance, but forebear to comment. Let the King twist the knife, he thought. A petty gesture. Perhaps after this, I can interest him more in the coming war with France than with the lusty lilies of the Court.

Neither man knew the Earl was planning a desperate revenge.
 

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

In the O'Cameron tent, Brother Sebastian finished the last of a series of neat stitches he was putting in Cathelin's abdomen. ''There,'' he said in satisfaction to his sweating patient. ''The muscle's no come apart much, just a wee tear. But the scar'll be all the greater fer the tearin'.'' 

''Aye,'' Cathelin replied. ''But I live and that whoreson O'Brian likely will not. What's a scar or two more on my hide, Brother? T'is only a reminder to me of mistakes past, and not to repeat them.'' 

Sebastian nodded sagely, then smeared the re-stitched wound with Ignatius' sovereign salve and began the process of bandaging. ''Well, you nearly had your guts upon the ground, Lady. This time, p'raps you'll consider takin' your healer's advice and stayin' abed.'' He gave her what he hoped was a stern look. 

Cathelin chuckled. The salve took away much of the pain, besides preventing infection. ''With my Madri at my side, good Brother, what other temptation would I be needing to spend all my time in bed?'' She'd drunk a good cupful of ale and was working on a second; jousting and sword fighting were thirsty work. 

Sebastian flushed scarlet. ''I'll be prayin' for your speedy recovery, Lady,'' he replied hastily, mortally embarrassed. The apprentice had entered the abbey as a child, one of the Innocents so desired by the Church, and although he'd had a somewhat rough education in the matters of men and women outside the abbey walls lately, he was still young and naive enough not to fully understand sex. 

But that didn't mean he couldn't still be embarrassed by the implications of it, despite what Brother Ignatius had insisted was, ''No mortal sin, only a wee bit o' what th' Good Lord intended fer th' continuance o' th' human race!'' Sebastian was still unclear on exactly what kind of relationship two women could have, but if Brother Ignatius and Abbot Dominicus saw nothing sinful in it, he could not, either. But he could still wonder... 

Sebastian was gathering his healing supplies together when Crimthan entered the tent, carrying an unconscious Dragon. Cathelin immediately sat up on the cot, then blew out a slow breath when the motion caused a sharp pain in her stomach. ''What...?'' she managed to gasp. 

''T'is all right, Lady!'' Crimthan said hastily, ''th' lad's had nobbut a knock. A healer's already seen to him.'' The nurse laid the boy on the end of the cot carefully. ''Th' brother said as how he'll wake soon, an' should have no food, only water. An' if he gets dizzy or vomits, we're ta call him.'' 

Sebastian snorted. ''I'm the one you'll be callin','' he said, abruptly assuming, in his concern, the confidence of his trade. ''In fact, I'll be examinin' the lad now, just to be sure.'' 

Cathelin watched with worried eyes while the Brother carefully went over Dragon with skillful fingers. In the meantime, Lady Emer entered the tent, carrying Honey. ''Here's your good girl,'' she said cheerfully. 

Emer was a small, plump, motherly woman with dark blonde hair, blue eyes, and a disposition not unlike a lioness with cubs. It was said that even her husband Lleu, a highly respected warrior with a reputation for fierceness, deferred to his little wife. ''I watched you lay that O'Brian bastard out flat, Cathelin. T'was a fine bit of swordwork, that.'' 

''My thanks, Emer,'' Cathelin replied, somewhat distracted. Honey whimpered, and this immediately got her attention. ''Oh, come here, little Cat,'' she said, opening her arms. 

Honey squirmed until Emer deposited her in her mathra's lap, then the little girl stared with wide green eyes at her brother. ''Wake up!'' she insisted. 

''Nay, Honey,'' Emer said, sitting down on a camp stool and pouring herself a cup of ale. ''Not now, sweet. He'll wake in a bit, no doubt.'' She continued, talking to Cathelin, ''Had the wind knocked out of him, he did. Ah, and here's your own lady!'' The Duchess shifted her chair around so Madrigal, who had just come in, could enter the small tent fully. ''Well, this is a merry little party, eh?'' 

Madrigal stared at Cathelin and licked her lips. ''You are... unhurt?'' she asked hesitantly. Madrigal feared her Lady Cat was a ghost, that she had died and the body she saw no more than her beloved's spirit, returned to fulfill her oath. 

And I would die as well, she thought, fear and hope warring within her. She was afraid to move, to break the spell, and lose her Lady Cat forever. 

Cathelin got up with a grunt and deposited Honeycat on the bed. She'd removed the padded gambeson she wore beneath her armor and was nude from the waist up. Powerful muscles shifted beneath her scarred and tattooed skin as she took the two strides necessary to bring her within a hair's distance of her mate. 

Madrigal half-closed her eyes, the smell of sweat and rusted iron and horse and leather rolling over her. Cathelin's hair, formerly pinned up beneath her helm, had come partially down, and dark-red locks cascaded over her broad shoulders. The Muslim reached out a hand and touched the new tattoo over Cathelin's heart - a circle filled with an abstract pattern suggestive of wings - and sighed. Cathelin had gotten the tattoo in honor of her adoption into the clan. It was her. 

The pulse of life beat beneath her fingers, the flesh she caressed was warm; it was her Lady Cat, the owner of her soul, her sun of glory returned whole and alive and looking down at her with a smile. Madrigal trembled when Cathelin took her hand and brought it to her lips, kissing it tenderly. ''Aye,'' Cathelin said huskily, ''I'm here, sweetling.'' 

That was enough. With a choked cry, Madrigal fell into Cathelin's arms, feeling the strong heartbeat beneath her cheek, her hands clutching her Lady, unwilling to ever let her go again. ''I thought you dead,'' Madrigal said, tears sliding down her cheeks. ''I thought you dead.'' 

Cathelin stroked Madrigal's back. ''I'm alive, Madri. I'm here. Don't fret so, sweetling. I love you, truly.'' Over her weeping wife's head, Cathelin saw Emer wink and drain her goblet. 

''I'll just be seein' to my own Lord,'' Emer said, a broad grin on her face. ''I'm sure the two of you need a bit of privacy right about now.'' With that, the blonde Duchess strode out of the tent, already determined to ask her minstrel to compose a love song in honor of the most besotted pair of wenches she'd ever seen in her life. 

Aye, Emer thought with a sigh. Young love. Is it not grand?

She chuckled to herself as she made her way across the field, barely acknowledging the King's passage as she walked briskly past the O'Brian's tent.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

King John entered the O'Brian's tent, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the relative gloom after the brightness outside. William of Northanger instructed the guards to wait outside. 

Eithne was already there; she gave the King a venomous glare and returned her eyes to her husband, who sat up on the cot and stared into the distance, a smallsword clutched in his hand. 

''I am here, my Lord of Kinslainne,'' John said. ''What would you have of me?'' 

Desmond's head slowly turned until he looked at the King. ''Closer, Your Majesty,'' he said in a breathy, barely audible voice. ''Closer, please.'' 

William nodded, indicating the pool of blood beneath Desmond that was sinking slowly into the dirt. ''He is weak,'' the councilor said. ''I think it is safe.'' 

King John harrumphed and gathered his ermine trimmed cloak around him. Stepping fastidiously around scattered pieces of armor, bloody bandages and other detritus, he went to the Earl's side and waited. 

''Closer...,'' Desmond whispered, trying and failing to wave his splinted arm. ''I must confess...'' His voice trailed off. 

John leaned down, tucking his cloak between his knees... 

And Desmond struck at him with the smallsword, roaring, ''Bastard! You bloody whore's get!'' And struck again. 

Even as Desmond's sword clanged off the hidden breastplate the King wore beneath his tunics and robes, William grabbed John's shoulder and pulled him, reeling, out of danger. Both the King and the Earl panted; the former out of sheer terror (as evinced by the urine trickling from the leg of his hose), the latter from the exhaustion that effort had cost him. 

''Why?'' John nearly screamed in panic as several guardsmen rushed in with drawn weapons. ''In God's name, why?'' For a moment, he believed the Earl knew of his plans for DaDerga. 

''You bastard!'' Desmond panted, still holding his sword. ''I know what you've been doing with my wife! Goddamned cuckolder! Did you think I'd wear the horns gladly?'' 

A guardsman raised his sword, but John stopped him with a gesture. ''I admit the Lady Eithne's a fine tumbler, O'Brian. And yes, I had her a time or two.'' With a small leer, he reached down a hand and patted his padded codpiece, ignoring his earlier fright in the anticipation of making the Earl's last minutes a living hell. ''She was ripe for it. Practically begged me. A born whore - and I should know.'' 

''You bastard!'' Eithne shrilled, hands bunched into fists. ''I'll kill you for that!'' 

''Tut-tut, Lady,'' John said, black eyes alight with the glee of a child who pulls the wings from flies and watches them struggle and die. ''A threat against the Crown is treason.'' 

Eithne began to weep and Desmond looked at her with cold hatred. ''Cease your blubbering, bitch,'' he said. ''I should kill you now, Eithne, for what you've done. But I'm a dying man, and have not the strength...'' He turned burning eyes towards the King. ''I tried to kill you and failed, John. I've nothing to lose, so execute me if you will. But I do ask a final request of you.'' 

John raised an eyebrow at Desmond's deliberate use of his name rather than a royal title. ''Say on, O'Brian.'' 

''Her.'' The smallsword dropped from the Earl's hand; he was slipping away, the darkness threatening to swallow him whole, but he clung to life for just one moment longer. ''Destroy her.'' 

''Who?'' The King seemed amused. ''Your wife? Or Lady Cathelin? Choose, O'Brian, and you have my word I shall use every power within my command to bring the lady down.'' 

A choice... Desmond fell back on the cot heavily, feeling cold, so terribly cold. His blood was freezing within his veins, clotted snow and ice blew through his flesh. ''I...,'' he began, then wheezed, eyes beginning to cloud over. 

William of Northanger bent over the dying Earl, keeping one hand on the dagger in his belt. Putting his ear over Desmond's working mouth, he listened for the man's words, and his fate-filled choice. 

Dragon had awakened and was nestled on Crimthan's broad bosom, being rocked while he clutched his favorite rag-dragon toy. The nurse had given the little boy a drink of water, and when he'd complained of a headache, had gotten Brother Sebastian's permission to give him a few sips of willowbark tea heavily sweetened with honey. 

Honeycat had also complained of a headache; she had been so insistent that Sebastian had given the little girl a tiny cup of the tea as well. Now she sat on the cot, playing with a small dark gray puppy she'd found roaming outside the tent. She was already calling the tiny animal ''Faithi,'' - a choice that Cathelin found disquieting. 

''T'is the Gaelic for a seer, an oracle,'' she explained to Madrigal. ''And that pup's got wolf in him or I'm no hunter.'' 

''Is it safe?'' Madrigal was still holding Cathelin's hand, although the two women now sat on stools side by side. ''I mean, he will not attack her, will he?'' 

''Nay,'' Cathelin said. ''Although I'm wondering how such a wee thing, and barely weaned, too, by the look of him, managed to come here.'' She watched her daughter giggle, charmed by the friendly puppy's antics, then sighed. ''I suppose t'will be all right. But he can not sleep in your bed, Honey!'' she said firmly. ''We've enough problems with fleas and such.'' 

Honeycat nodded, then giggled again as Faithi licked her face enthusiastically. 

''Will we have to get a puppy for Dragon, too?'' Madrigal asked, but before Cathelin could reply, Becca entered. 

''There's a messenger from the King, Lady,'' she said to Cathelin. ''Duke William of Northanger. He insists on seeing you now.'' 

''Oh!'' Madrigal jumped up as Cathelin reached out a long arm and snatched a tunic that was draped over her armorstand. 

Madrigal helped her get it on, then quickly washed Cathelin's face and hands and pinned her dark-red hair back into place. That done, the Muslim straightened her own dress and ran hands over her braids to make sure she was presentable. 

Cathelin bore all her mate's fussing with an amused grin. ''All right, Half-Tongue,'' she said when Madrigal had settled down, arranging her skirts, ''We've not the look of such dirty barbarians now. Ask his Grace to come inside.'' 

Becca ducked out of the tent and returned a moment later. ''His Grace, William of Northanger,'' she announced formally. 

The councilor came into the tent, black eyes coming to rest on Cathelin. ''Lady Cathelin,'' he said with a barely perceptible bow. ''His Majesty, King John, requests your presence immediately in the royal pavilion.'' 

Cathelin rose carefully, mindful of her stitches. ''I'm hardly dressed for a Court function,'' she began, but was cut off by William. ''What you wear is not important. This is to be a private meeting between yourself, the King, and one or two others.'' 

Cathelin's brows climbed to her hairline, but she politely indicated for the Duke to precede her. It wasn't until they got out of the tent that she realized Madrigal was right behind her. ''Madri?'' Quickly, she pulled her mate aside while William waited impatiently. ''The King's invitation was for me, sweetling, much as I hate to say it. I must go alone.'' 

''Where you go, I go.'' Madrigal's sweet face took on its most stubborn expression. 

Despite Cathelin's urgings, Madrigal refused to countenance leaving her mate, until finally William snapped, ''Come along then, obstinate wench! But you're to be silent and respectful or you'll likely find your head on a block.'' 

Giving Cathelin a smug smile, Madrigal twined her arm through the taller woman's and together, they followed William to the king's elaborate tent. 

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

King John sat on a sturdy chair covered in cloth-of-gold, boasting feather-stuffed cushions and bolsters. His feet, shod in the curl-toed slippers currently in vogue, rested on a small carved ivory ottoman, and in one hand he clutched a goblet, the bowl carved entirely of turquoise - a protection against poisoning. 

Around him, lining the walls of his tent, stood his personal guards, clad in mail, helms fantastically crafted into snarling beast's masks, and they held their swords naked in their hands. 

A minstrel, clad in bright green and ivory cloth, with yellow, scarlet and blue ribbons fluttering, strummed a lute and sang a Celtic praisesong to the King: 

''We have summoned you here to witness the Crown's justice,'' King John said, black eyes glittering. He snapped his fingers, and a pair of guardsmen brought Eithne inside; the dark-haired woman had been gagged, although her hands were not bound. 

The men released her and she stumbled, falling to her knees on the rare carpets that were piled deep on the tent floor. Lifting her hands and removing the gag, Eithne spat to clear her throat and turned stormy gray eyes on the King. ''Bastard!'' she said huskily, ''I'll see you a rotted, maggot strewn corpse someday!'' 

''Now, Lady Eithne,'' King John said mildly. ''Curse us not lest you be gagged again. Be silent and listen, for our news concerns you as well.'' 

Cathelin surreptitiously took Madrigal's hand behind her back and squeezed it lightly. If John was surprised by the Muslim's presence, he gave no sign. ''If I may be so bold as to speak, sire?'' the Irishwoman said, inclining her head. ''Does this justice you speak of have to do with the Earl of Kinslainne?''' 

John looked pleased and smug. ''It does, Lady Cathelin.'' He took a sip of wine. ''Desmond, Earl of Kinslainne, is dead. He was shriven before dying, and made of us a final request, which we have deigned to grant. He desired revenge upon a lady; one of you here, in fact.'' 

Cathelin and Madrigal exchanged a glance, and Madrigal slipped her free hand through the slit in the side of her skirt to finger the hilt of the dagger she wore strapped to one thigh. She had no hope she could kill any the guards, but with any luck, if necessary, she could fatally wound the King, giving Cathelin time to escape in the confusion. 

I will not let him harm my Lady Cat. She kept her dark purple eyes on John, marking the space between his doublet and his chin; his throat, unprotected, would be the best place to attempt a strike. 

The King continued, oblivious to the Muslim's attentive stare. ''We swore an oath by our crown and kingdom to use our royal powers to take the Earl's vengeance upon the lady of his choice. You, Lady Cathelin; and you, Lady Eithne, were the women he most desired to be punished.'' 

At his gesture, some of the guards moved from their positions on the walls to block the entrance of the tent. ''And there will be no escape, either here or in Heaven.'' John settled back in his chair, watching the women with amusement. 

''What of the duel, Your Majesty?'' Cathelin said, every nerve in her body alert. She wished now it was not a crime to wear a weapon in the presence of the king. 

''The Earl's grievances against you, as cited by his herald, were answered by your combat. And, despite the terms of the duel, Lady Cathelin, the Earl had a previous agreement with us, deeding the Kinslainne lands to the Crown in the event of his death. This agreement predates your own involvement with O'Brian and we intend to enforce it.'' 

Cathelin shrugged; she really hadn't cared to take over Kinslainne. The Earldom was vast, if not as rich as Inishowen, and she had enough responsibilities already. If she had won the duel, she'd intended to make a gift of Kinslainne to a cadet branch of the O'Brian clan. 

King John continued, ''And as for Lady Eithne... she made a cuckold of her husband, lifting her skirts to a man unsanctioned by the holy bonds of marriage. For that crime, the Earl would have been within his rights to kill her himself.'' Eithne held herself erect, although still kneeling. The skirts of her brilliant orange gown, made of costly silk and embroidered heavily with gold, were torn and stained. 

Her hair was a mess of tangles, face dirty, lips cracked and split, but the dignity and pride of her bearing made her seem like a Queen, not a supplicant. ''Abortive, rooting hog!'' she said to John scornfully. Eithne turned her head to stare at Cathelin. ''May you see your own children die as I did mine, witch. A pity your brat didn't break his neck when he fell.'' 

Madrigal snapped her head around and her eyes narrowed. ''What do you know of that?'' she asked. 

Eithne spat again, gray eyes aflame with contempt. ''Why, for that t'was my hand that knocked the little whelp from his perch.'' The sheer flush of her emotional upset made her uncautious; suddenly, Eithne didn't care what happened - she'd lost everything except her life, and even that didn't seem quite so precious anymore. ''Too bad my aim wasn't truer. I'd have worn yellow to the funeral and drank a toast, besides.'' 

Madrigal trembled, and Cathelin hastily put an arm around her shoulders. The Irishwoman was furious as well, but dared not let her rage break through and endanger her mate's life. ''I'm sure God will find a suitable punishment for a would-be murderess,'' Cathelin murmured, but the soft tone of her voice was a fraud. Inside, she seethed, and swore to herself that if she survived this day, Eithne O'Brian would not. 

King John smothered a laugh behind his hand. This was better, far better than the passion plays he'd endured at Court. ''Ladies,'' he said, ''if you're quite finished... we imagine you would enjoy hearing our decision.'' 

All eyes turned to the King. 

CHAPTER FORTY

Cathelin waited, the pain in her belly abated by the sheer rush of adrenaline as her body sought to respond to threat as it had been taught. With an effort she held herself still, although her hand clutched Madrigal's in a convulsive grip. 

Madrigal had switched her attention to the King again and, her hand locked on the handle of her concealed dagger, coiled her muscles and prepared to leap at John if he announced Lady Cat's name. 

Eithne knelt, hands clasped together in her lap, gray eyes lashing the King with whips of scorn and injured pride. 

King John sipped his wine, drawing out the tension as long as he could. When he felt the mood was so tight it nearly thrummed like a plucked harpstring, he spoke. ''Lady Cathelin... the Earl did not name you, much to our surprise.'' 

Cathelin felt her knees almost give way in relief, but she kept herself upright with an effort. Her head felt light as she heard the King continue, ''...seems his wife's unfaithfulness was of more concern to him than any other issue. However... in view of Lady Eithne's crime against your own family, we are willing to defer royal justice in favor of your own. This, we feel, would not break our oath to O'Brian.'' 

Madrigal relaxed, too, letting out a sighing breath. She looked up at her beloved Lady Cat, silently answering the question in those golden eyes. 

Cathelin squared her shoulders. ''Nay, Your Majesty,'' she said. ''Though you've my thanks for offering. We leave the Lady Eithne to you. I've no wish for more O'Brian blood on my hands; there is already enough.'' 

King John nodded. ''Very well. But stay and be a witness to our sentencing of the Lady Eithne.'' 

Eithne stared at John, her face so still it might have been carved of Alexandrian marble. ''Do your worst, pig-dog!'' she said, sneering. ''Betwixt you and the O'Cameron witch, I've lost my husband, my rank, my son, my home and my honor. Kill me or imprison me; I care not what you do.'' 

William leaned over and whispered in King John's ear, and the King suddenly smiled - but it was not a pleasant grin. ''Then, as we gave your husband - may God rest his soul - we give you a choice, Lady Eithne. You may either enter the cloister of Kildare, or you may be locked within the tower room of DaDerga without food or water. We will give you a small dagger, if you wish to commit mortal sin rather than allow the will of God to relieve you of this life. Let it not be said we are not a generous monarch.'' 

Eithne stared at John in shock. The cloister of Kildare was dedicated to St. Bride, midwife to the Virgin Mary. An eternal flame burned there, tended to by nineteen nuns; their vows of poverty, chastity and silence were among the strictest in a Christian convent. The nuns had virtually no contact with the outside world; the women were forbidden to read, write or do anything save tend the sacred fire, cook food donated by pious peasants, and sing and pray. For a beautiful woman, still in her prime, the cloister would be akin to being locked up in a circle of Hell itself. 

Eithne stood slowly. ''I prefer death to a living burial,'' she said, gathering her skirts with both hands. ''But before I die, John the Bastard, know that I do so with a curse on my lips and a fire in my soul that cannot be quenched. May the very thing you desire be snatched from your grasp, and may you die yourself before the fulfillment of your uttermost dreams.'' 

Eithne suddenly darted at one of the guards, who half-raised his sword in reflex; she impaled herself on the blade, hitting the man so hard that the bloody point of the sword protruded from her back. With a sigh, she sank down, gray eyes wide open and opaque as riverstones seen through rushing water. The guard pulled his sword from her body with a rasp of steel on bone, and stammered, ''Your pardon, Majesty. She just...'' 

''I know.'' John looked at his former paramour, then said to William, ''See that she is given honorable burial beside her husband. I am not inclined to consider this suicide.'' 

William nodded and gave the order. Eithne was carried out, her dark hair unbound and brushing the ground like a cloak. 

John snapped his fingers for more wine. ''You have our permission to go,'' he said to Cathelin and Madrigal. 

Without a word, Cathelin bowed to the King and left, towing Madrigal by her hand, desperate for a breath of fresh air after her interview with the King of England. 

Once they were outside, Madrigal began to say, ''Lady Cat, I...,'' but they were interrupted by Duke William, who had hurried after them. 

''Your pardon, Lady Cathelin,'' he said. His black eyes looked directly into Cathelin's own amber, for the councilor was as tall as the Irishwoman, if leaner. ''There is something we must discuss.'' 

''Aye?'' Cathelin did not want to seem impatient, but she truly wished to get away from this place of death and return to her own home as quickly as possible. 

William moved until he stood so close that Cathelin could smell the cloves he sucked on his breath. ''It was I who heard the Earl's final request,'' the man said. ''No ear but my own can testify as to the truth of the matter.'' He stopped and waited, stroking his eyebrow with one finger. 

Cathelin schooled herself to betray nothing. ''And?'' she asked coolly. 

''And... perhaps I was mistaken about the Earl's choice. Perhaps I made a regretful mistake, but one which can still be rectified... at any time. I am getting to be an old man, my Lady. My memory is not what it used to be.'' 

''I see.'' Cathelin understood exactly what the Duke was implying. If he told the King that he had made an error, then like as not the sadistic John would be more than happy to offer her a choice between the cloister and death. 

William gave her a tiny smile. ''I believe we understand one another.'' 

''What do you want?'' Cathelin asked bluntly. She was tired of the councilor's game. ''Let's have an end to it, man. Money? Land? Cattle?'' 

William's smile grew wider. ''Meet me tonight, my Lady. The third landing of the privy stair in castle DaDerga. Come alone.'' The threat in his tone was evident. ''Remember, Lady Cathelin. Right now, your fate rests in my hands.'' With that, he walked away. 

Cathelin let out the breath she had been holding... and looked down at Madrigal, who stared after the Duke's retreating back and fingered her hidden dagger once more.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The Inishowen party, as well as many of the nobles sympathetic to the O'Cameron cause, had been invited to be guests of the King that evening. The cooks had labored to provide a suitable feast, and even now the vast dining hall of DaDerga was alight and alive with guests and servitors. The tables could not have possibly accommodated everyone of rank; instead, only the titled and wealthy were given places and the rest were served in lesser halls. 

There were minstrels and jongleurs, even a golliard poet or two. The King's jester, a diminutive hunchbacked man named Jackie who had been further deformed as a child - his lips had been skillfully carved away, leaving him with a grotesque perpetual smile - capered nimbly in his fool's motley, drawing laughter and a hail of bread crusts from his audience. 

Cathelin, seated at the high table beneath the canopy of state at the King's insistence, applied herself to her dinner, waving away the more exotic or highly sauced dishes. When the first of several subtleties were brought out - a rampant griffin shaped out of bread dough that was either fighting or fucking a currant studded unicorn - she turned to Madrigal, seated at her side. 

''These damned things can go on for hours, and it's my thinking that the whole lot of them will be drunk as alewives. Mark my words, Madri; half the women won't be sleeping with their own husbands tonight, and the other half'll be wondering where their lords are.'' 

Madrigal stirred the contents of a silver platter with her eating knife. ''What will you do with the Duke, beloved?'' 

Cathelin gave Madrigal a sharp glance, then lowered her voice. ''What do you mean, sweetling? I've no idea yet what the man wants.'' 

It was Madrigal's turn to glare, but she kept her voice low as well. ''I am not a fool, Lady Cat. If you yield to this man's demands, he will want more, and more and more. His kind are never satisfied; you will be bled white, Inishowen drained and still, like a spider, he will weave you further into his web until it is too late to escape.'' 

Cathelin shrugged. ''What would you have me do, Madri?'' She picked up her goblet and took a healthy swig of spiced red wine. ''I'll be meeting with the viper tonight, as you know. After that... we'll see.'' 

''As you wish.'' Madrigal daintily hacked off a bit of meat from the joint of lamb being passed around by liveried servitors. But she was not nearly as calm as she pretended to be. 

William of Northanger watched the two women carefully, taking neat and precise bites of the clove and cinnamon dusted peacock's breast on his platter. 

It was clear that Lady Cathelin and the heathen woman were more than friends. While William had heard of such relationships being sanctioned - or at least ignored - by the Church in Ireland, he'd never witnessed such himself. 

Rather than being shocked, the Duke was pleased. Yet another weapon to add to my arsenal, he thought. I'm sure I can find at least one corrupt servant in Inishowen who'd be willing to testify as to their unnatural relationship in a canonical court. Then the Lady would face a tribunal of cardinals appointed by Rome, and no doubt she and her strumpet would be sentenced to the stake.

But only if she refuses my demands.

William was an ambitious man. Having the ear and favor of the King, he was the second most powerful lord in the land, but it was his determination to become the king himself. He had his own supporters, but right now he knew he could not defy John openly and hope to succeed. 

However, with Lady Cathelin and her own allies drawn within the plot... 

An armed uprising in Ireland would draw the armies of John's fealty-sworn barons, dukes and earls, leaving England virtually devoid of anyone loyal to the King who was powerful enough to oppose William in his treasonous bid for the throne. 

This was why he had urged King John to make an alliance with Desmond O'Brian; the Earl of Kinslainne would have made an excellent addition to William's own cadre of secret supporters. William had also intended to use Eithne O'Brian's adultery with John to blackmail the Earl into aiding him; a fortuitous accident that had coincided well with his plans. 

But with the Earl's death, William had rejected his wife, figuring the woman would, even if sympathetic to his cause, be useless by virtue of her sex. Without an heir, even if Eithne had taken over Kinslainne, she would not have been able to claim the chieftanship of the O'Brian clan, and thus, would not have been able to bring an alliance of other clans to further William's plot. So, she was discarded - both by the King and, much more secretly, by the Duke. 

William dipped his fingers into a bowl of rose scented water and wiped them on the waiting servant's tunic. Then he helped himself to a dish of braised calf's brains and cabbage, and while he ate he watched all around him with his cold black eyes - and the Duke thought, and schemed, and planned. 
 

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Cathelin yawned, running both hands through her dark red hair. ''T'is mortal tired I am, Madri. Are you as ready for bed as I am?'' She'd taken off her feast clothes, carefully putting away the silver and copper embroidered black tunic and matching hose; now she was dressed in simple homespun trews and a threadbare tunic that had definitely seen better days. 

Madrigal, seated in a chair and brushing out her incredibly long, blue-black hair, nodded. ''Yes, the feast was long, and I, for one, was bored. Why is it that you find such humor in a small man falling into a pie? I felt pity for him, the little king's jester.'' 

''Aye.'' Cathelin crossed the room and poured herself a cup of wine, watering it well from a bronze pitcher. ''Poor Jackie Manikin. You'll notice I did no laughing, sweetling. T'is a hard life that one leads, I'm thinking.'' 

''And the minstrels were terrible as well. What was that song they kept playing? It was as sweet as rahat lakoum and just as sickening.'' 

Cathelin grinned. Rahat lakoum was a Saracen sweetmeat made with honey and hashish; it was infamous for its richnes, and rare was the individual who could stomach more than one. ''I believe t'is called 'No Star is Brighter Than My Lady's Eyes.' Did you see the look on Lugh's face? He was so green I thought his liver had flopped over.'' 

Madrigal chuckled. ''I wish Lugh had been able to sing. He has a fine voice and his harp is better tuned as well.'' She laid aside the comb and sighed, then twisted her hair into two braids, securing them with leather cords that had been gilded. ''It has indeed been a long day, my beloved.'' 

''It has at that.'' Cathelin put a hand on her abdomen, gingerly feeling the bandages that were wrapped around her middle. ''And t'is not over for me yet.'' She yawned again, stretching until her spine cracked, ignoring the painful pulling of her stitches. 

''When must you meet with the Duke?'' Madrigal rose and crossed to Cathelin, putting both arms around the taller woman and squeezing her. 

''Soon.'' Cathelin glanced at the candle on the table. It was fat and striped with red and white; as it burned down, it marked the hours of the night. ''In another half-hour, I'm thinking.'' 

During the feast, the Duke had sent a page to Cathelin. The little boy, who could not have been older than nine years, had come up to the two women and said softly, ''The first hour after midnight.'' Cathelin had given him a small coin and dismissed him with thanks. 

Madrigal sighed, snuggling closer to her mate. ''Be cautious, Lady Cat. You cannot carry your sword, but at least take a knife.'' 

''I will.'' Cathelin took another gulp of wine, then set the goblet on a table and put her arms around Madrigal. ''I love thee, my paradise-dove,'' she said in Arabic. 

Madrigal replied, ''Thou art my soul,'' in the same tongue. Then, as Cathelin yawned again, eyes fluttering, the Muslim tightened her arms around the woman she loved, and prayed she would have the strength to protect her Lady Cat from the world, but especially from the vile man known as the Widowmaker. 

William leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed over his chest. She was late, but the Duke knew Lady Cathelin would come eventually. She had no other choice. 

A figure muffled in a cloak appeared on the fourth floor landing above him. The torches burned low but it was apparent from the graceful way it moved that this newcomer was a woman. 

''Lady Cathelin?'' William moved away from the wall and waited as the figure descended the stairs slowly. ''Come, woman! Dawdle not so! We have much to discuss and my time is limited. I must return to the King's chambers before I am missed.'' 

In truth, King John was dallying with a pair of pretty serving wenches; but as soon as he finished, he would be summoning the Duke. John took a perverse pleasure in trying to privately humiliate William; thus far, the king had no idea of the many times his ''faithful'' councilor had come close to revealing his contempt and disgust for the deviant monarch. 

''Hurry, sluggardly wench!'' William was beginning to seethe; it seemed as if Lady Cathelin was showing her disrespect for him by deliberately lagging and refusing to respond. ''Or would you rather have me reveal to Rome the true nature of your relationship with that slave of yours. What is her name?'' He bared his teeth in a sarcastic parody of a smile. ''Ah, yes. Madrigal. A toothsome piece, eh?'' 

The figure hesitated, then began to walk down the stairs even more slowly than before. 

William continued, ''Not that I blame you. No, she seems a lusty little armful, that I grant. But you know how the Church frowns upon such sins. I've no doubt the cardinals would vote to have the pair of you condemned to the stake, although you could always bribe the executioner to strangle you first and escape the pain of the flames. Or I could just tell the King; he might forgive you, but I know he'd want the pair of you to come to Court and attend him in his bedchamber. His Majesty likes to watch, you know.'' 

It was at this moment that William realized something was wrong. Even concealed in the folds of a cloak, the woman descending the stairs seemed somehow smaller than he remembered. The Duke drew in a quick breath, but it was already too late. 

The woman came down the remaining stairs in a rush, her cloak billowing out behind her like the wings of a dark, vengeful angel. William had not even time to cry out before she hit him with all her body weight, pushing him over and down the stairs. 

He rolled, bumping from one unforgiving stone stair to the next, somersaulting down as pain exploded throughout his body, until he reached the next landing and lay, sprawled and breathless, struggling desperately to clear his head of the swirling universe of sparks and darkness that threatened to overwhelm him. 

William was aware when the woman stood above him; the folds of her cloak brushed his face and he turned his head, seeking instinctively to see her. When he managed to get his eyes in focus, he choked, ''You!' but his voice was cut off when her booted foot came down across his throat and began to press hard. 

The Duke raised his hands, only dimly realizing one of his arms was broken, and his nails scrabbled against the leather boot. His tongue protruded from his mouth as he heaved and strove to live, to take just one single breath of sweet, sweet air. 

Eyes rolling back in his head, heels pounding and scraping the stone floor, William convulsed, his struggles getting weaker... weaker... until they stopped altogether. The woman continued to bear down on his throat, but carefully; she did not want to break his voicebox and betray his death as murder. 

When she was satisfied the Duke was dead, she removed her foot, flinching when a rattling sigh came from his lips; a final lament from the last bit of air trapped in his lungs. William's black eyes stared up at her, his protruding tongue a bloody rag from where he'd bit down on it in panic. 

The man was dead, of that she was sure. She bent down and closed his eyes with her fingertips, then arranged his limbs more haphazardly, as if they had remained that way after he'd fallen. There was blood on the stairs from a gash in the back of William's head; a tiny pool of the dark red stuff had gathered beneath him, soaking his hair, but the flow was sluggish, almost hesitant. 

Carefully, making sure she left no sign of her presence, the woman turned and went back up the stairs, the hood of her cloak falling back to reveal blue-black braids wrapped in gilded leather cords. 

As she left, as silent as a ghost, not even a footfall to betray her, she did not notice a small shadow detach itself from the larger shadows in the corner of the fourth floor landing, and scurry quietly away. 
 

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Cathelin's eyes fluttered open and she winced as bright sunlight struck at them like spears. Oh, St. Brigit! she moaned internally. How much did I have to drink last night, I'm wondering?

With a shudder, she buried her nose in Madrigal's hair, breathing in the fresh, spicy scent she adored. She was curled up against her mate's warm back, one arm over her waist, a heavy breast cupped in her hand. Her other arm was numb from where she'd had her own head resting on it. 

Cathelin moaned softly and felt Madrigal stir. ''Has the grape turned on you, Lady Cat?'' the Muslim asked softly. 

Cathelin moaned again, licking dry lips. ''Aye,'' she replied huskily. ''Either that, or some son-of-a-she-wolf used my head as a battering ram in the night.'' 

Madrigal was silent. She'd drugged the wine in their bedchamber last night to ensure that her Lady Cat slept, using a packet of herbs she'd stolen from Brother Sebastian. The wine had been spiced with apricots and cloves, and sweetened as well; the Muslim knew this would disguise the bitter taste of the drug. 

She'd gotten precious little rest herself. Her eyes felt gummed together; she raised her hands before her face, not surprised they were trembling a little. She half expected to see them covered in blood -William's blood - but they were clean. 

If only my own soul were as clean, she thought. 

Cathelin grunted, shifting to find a more comfortable position. Her belly wound was beginning to gripe. ''T'is chilled this morn,'' she hinted. ''Although I've a powerful thirst, I've no ambition to rise and face the cold stone floor.'' 

Madrigal sighed, then threw off the heavy coverlet, shivering a little when the cool air hit her skin. Pulling away from Cathelin, she got out of bed and padded across the room, wishing they were back in Inishowen; she had covered the floors of the master's chamber in colorful rag rugs. Besides providing a homey touch, they kept feet from freezing first thing in the morning. 

Cathelin watched Madrigal, noting the other woman seemed tired as well. Ah, my poor sweetling... she's had a bad time of late, and in no small part due to me. I'll have to think of something special for us to do together when we return to Inishowen.

Madrigal came back with a cup of water, which Cathelin drank gratefully. Handing the empty cup to her mate, the Irishwoman lay back with a sigh, flexing her arm, which had begun to tingle with returning feeling. She was looking forward to a morning cuddle with plenty of sweet kisses, but much to her disappointment, Madrigal pulled a gown over her head and sat down across the room, her back turned to the other woman, taking her hair down from its sleep-braids. 

''Madri? Will you not come back to bed?'' With a smile, Cathelin patted the empty place beside her. ''We'll be leaving for Inishowen later and we'll have precious little privacy on the trail. Besides, I'll have to be seeing Duke William before we leave; I'm sure the man's angry at my failing to meet him last night.'' 

When Madrigal did not reply, Cathelin continued, ''I don't know what got into me last night, sweetling. I slept like the dead. Mayhap t'was the wine.'' 

Madrigal's back was rigid beneath her gown but she said nothing until she had finished pushing bronze pins into her coiled hair. Then she turned on her stool, facing Cathelin. ''How so, Lady Cat?'' she asked calmly, although inwardly she trembled. 

''Why, for that I can usually hold my liquor better than that. Must've been stronger than I thought.'' Cathelin, with a regretful sigh, climbed out of bed and pulled a leather tunic over her head, its color a dark gold, decorated with bone beads and tiny silver studs that winked and flashed in the morning light. 

Madrigal helped Cathelin put on her hose, then handed her mate a pair of soft house boots. ''For now, wear these,'' the Muslim said absently. ''I will leave your riding boots out for later.'' 

Cathelin leaned over and kissed Madrigal's mouth lightly. ''Will you be wanting to break your fast here?'' she breathed against the other woman's lips. Her hands, powerful enough to break bones, were gentle as they slid along the back of Madrigal's gown, lingering over her rounded buttocks. ''I know what I'd be wanting to feast on...'' Her tongue curled over Madrigal's ear delicately. 

Madrigal moved away. ''I must stay here and supervise the packing,'' she said, avoiding looking at Cathelin. ''You go down, Lady Cat. The King will be expecting you to take your leave of him; and, as you say, you must still meet with Duke William.'' 

Cathelin was frankly astonished. Since she'd been wounded, she'd hadn't exactly been inclined to do more than kiss or cuddle, and sometimes, not even that. And she knew this had been a hardship to her sweetling, who'd had to relieve her urges alone when she grew frustrated enough. 

Now, when she was doing everything except tossing Madrigal on the bed and leaping on her like a starving wolf, the woman was more interested in packing! Cathelin growled beneath her breath but decided to leave it. She did have business to attend to, regardless of what she'd rather be doing. 

We'll be talking of this later, she and I, Cathelin decided. I'll get her alone when we're on the way back to Inishowen, even if I have to post guards to do it!

Madrigal tried not to let Lady Cat know how distressed she was; she meekly tilted her head to receive her mate's kiss on her smooth cheek, sensing the other woman's upset boiling beneath the surface. When Cathelin left the room, she sighed and sat back down, hands clasped in her lap, worrying a loose thread in the embroidered oak leaf design on her purple gown. 

I have committed a terrible crime, she thought. And compounded it by refusing to lay with Lady Cat. But I just... cannot... not now.

She was startled from these thoughts by a scratching at the door. 

As she walked through the halls, Cathelin noticed clustered knots of servants and lords and ladies huddled together, whispering excitedly. Catching sight of Emer, she hastened over to the plump blonde woman. 

''Good morn, Lady Emer,'' Cathelin said with a polite bow. ''I hope your slumbers were restful.'' 

Emer looked up at Cathelin and grinned. ''Oh, save the flowery speeches for the king and his lackeys!,'' she replied. ''I've no need of such. Have you heard the news, Cathelin?'' 

''Being as how I've only just wakened, no. Walk me down to the dining hall, will you? And tell me on the way.'' 

Emer laced her arm through the taller woman's and they walked together, the full skirts of the Duchess' gown swishing against Cathelin's leg. ''Duke William of Northanger is dead,'' she said. 

Cathelin stopped dead in her tracks. ''What?'' Her amber eyes were wide with astonishment. 

''Aye.'' Emer nodded politely to a passing Countess and her entourage. ''The place is all a-buzz with it. A servant found him, stone dead, on the privy stair early this morning.'' 

''Hmph.'' Cathelin began walking again, dark red brows drawn together in a frown. ''How did he die?'' 

''He fell, or so I've heard. His limbs were broken, his skull cracked, and blood everywhere. The King's own chirugeon and a monk examined the Duke's body and confirmed it must have been an accident.'' 

''Slipped and fell, eh?'' The two women entered the dining hall, where a long table had been set up with platters and dishes of food and drink. Already, the eating tables were filling as people shoved for a place, the hum of voices filling the vast hall. 

Cathelin grabbed a bowl of porridge and several slices of fried bacon, wrapping the latter in a chunk of bread. Then, taking a goblet of hard cider, she escorted Emer to a table, having only to glare at the occupants before they hastily moved down to make two spaces available. 

Sitting down, Cathelin drank half her cider first. ''So tell me, Emer. How did the Widowmaker slip and fall? And what in the name of God was he doing on the privy stair?'' Of course, she knew why the Duke had been there; he had been waiting for her and their secret meeting. But she wanted to know if that particular bit of news had gotten out somehow. 

Emer shrugged. ''I've no idea,'' she replied, taking a big bite of smoked eel. She chewed and swallowed, then continued, ''Mayhap the old Sassenach was meeting with some kitchen slut. Or with a great lady whose husband didn't know he was being fitted for a cuckold's horns. I'd put nothing past these English folk; they're as lusty a lot as any, and I've already heard this morning of a wedded couple who snuck from their own chambers in the night for an assignation with someone else. Much to their embarrassment, they woke up with one another this morn!'' The Duchess laughed merrily. 

Cathelin chuckled but continued to think while she ate. ''Where's John the Bastard?'' 

''In his own chambers, I heard. Mourning the loss of his favorite councilor, although there's few who'll grieve over that wicked man's loss.'' Emer spotted her husband, Lleu, who was coming into the hall. ''Your pardon, Cathelin. I have to speak to my lord about a certain lady's maid who snuck into our bedchamber last night.'' The Duchess sighed. ''Quite a pretty lass, if a bit scrawny. She was surprised, she was, when she found me there instead of Lleu!'' 

Emer rose and glided away, her plump little form not unlike a galleon under full sail. Upon seeing his wife, Lleu flinched and held a hand to his temples. 

I'm not be wanting to be Duke Lleu right now, Cathelin thought, then turned her attention back to the problem at hand. 

I know I didn't have that much to drink last night. The wine I drank at dinner was well watered, and save for that last cup at bedtime... Cathelin's eyes opened wide as a thought suddenly struck her. 

Gulping her cider, she stood and hastily left the dining hall, taking the stairs two at a time, intent upon reaching her bedchamber - and Madrigal, whom she was beginning to suspect had more than a little to do with Duke William's unbelievably fortunate demise.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Jackie Manikin looked at Madrigal. His eyes were the pale green of new spring leaves, his hair so pale a blonde as to be almost white. Although only in his twenties, the dwarf's face was lined and creased with care. 

Madrigal suppressed a shudder; Jackie's mouth, so horribly mutilated, made her heart clench in empathy. How could someone do that to a child? she asked herself. 

As if he'd read her thoughts, Jackie said, ''Your pardon, m'Lady.'' He waved a hand at his mouth, teeth exposed in a perpetually foolish grin. Over the years, he'd painfully learned to speak somewhat normally, although it was an effort. ''My peasant parents sold me to a man who trains and then sells deformed children to great lords and ladies as 'pets', you might say. My first owner, Count Henry of Wilverton, had this done to me; he thought it was amusing. And besides, he claimed I didn't smile enough to suit him.'' 

This time, Madrigal allowed Jackie to see how affected she was. ''I am truly sorry, Master Jackie. I, too, know what it is like to be a slave and subject to a cruel master's whims.'' She looked at him, compassion and empathy clearly visible on her beautiful face. 

The dwarf's entrance had been so unexpected, and when he'd asked to speak to her, Madrigal hadn't had the heart to refuse the little man's request. She'd put aside her brooding guilt about her role in Duke William's murder, almost relieved to have something else to think about. 

''So I've heard,'' Jackie said. ''But you shouldn't call me 'Master.' I'm far beneath you in rank, m'Lady.'' His eyes looked searchingly into Madrigal's, as if seeking something there; after a moment, he nodded in satisfaction. Taking a deep breath, he continued, ''So, to business then. What did the Duke have on you?'' 

Madrigal was startled. ''What? How did you... I mean, I don't know...'' She stopped, flustered, knowing she had betrayed herself and unsure exactly what the dwarf was implying by his question. 

Jackie held up a hand. ''Listen to me, m'Lady. I saw what you did to the Widowmaker last night.'' He sighed. ''Sometimes, women want to use me in bed, for I'm intact and still a man, despite my lack of stature and my twisted back. They shudder in horror, true - but it's a perverted adventure to them, a taste of forbidden fruit that isn't sweet at all. I was on the privy stair last night, waiting for a certain Countess who'd asked me to meet her there. She never came. You did.'' 

Madrigal didn't know how to reply; her mind twisted back and forth in panic. He saw! He knows! What can I do? Finally, she took hold of herself with an effort; although her heart pounded, she strove for calm. ''I see.'' The Muslim didn't quite know what to do. 

I have already murdered one man coldly, for he threatened my Lady Cat. It will be difficult for me to live with this and I know Allah will punish me harshly for the sin. But... I do not think I could do it again, not to this man, who has suffered so terribly already. Her eyes narrowed as she considered the hunchbacked dwarf, who had gone through the agonies of slavery, even as she had once. 

Jackie waited patiently. He was crouched on a stool, dressed in green and yellow fool's motley, his long pale hair in thin braids that had been wrapped in soft copper wire to make them stand up crazily, like corkscrewing horns. Madrigal took him in, not only with her eyes, but with her soul, tasting this man's pain. 

''How is it that you speak so well?'' she finally asked, surprising herself with a question she hadn't known she wanted to ask. 

''Practice.'' Jackie rubbed a hand across his chin. ''If you mean, why do I speak like an educated lord? Bear in mind that I'm a mimic, m'Lady. I ape the manners of my betters, the better to amuse them.'' He sounded bitter. 

''What will you do now? What I mean is... what is it that you want from me?'' 

''Freedom.'' The dwarf shifted on his stool. ''I don't want money, m'Lady. I only want to get away from the King and his courtiers. He'll sell me cheap; I'm not his favorite jester by any means. I think the only reason he brought me along on this trip was that he hoped I'd come by some accident in the O'Brian's war camp. The sight of my death throes would make a jolly jest for the king, I think.'' 

''And if I do this thing? What will happen then?'' Madrigal knew all about the longing for freedom; it had been a fantasy of hers when she'd been a slave. If I can help him, I will, she decided. Thus far, he has spoken not a word of threat, and even if he did, I do not know if I could live with another such act upon my soul.

Again, it seemed as if the dwarf was a mindreader. ''Make no mistake, m'Lady. I wouldn't betray you.'' Jackie looked at her earnestly. ''No matter if you tell me to leave, right now, and pester you no more. I'll keep my mouth shut. Well, as much as I can.'' He couldn't give her a rueful glance, but his shrug conveyed his feelings. 

''Suppose I buy your freedom. Where will you go? What will you do?'' Madrigal hesitated to ask the dwarf what he could do; she was well aware that the common folk were often cruel towards the deformed, and like as not the little man would end up stoned to death in some backwards village, instead of using whatever small skills he had to scratch out a living. 

''I've no idea.'' Jackie scratched his head. ''I admit I've never thought further than to just get away. But no doubt I'll survive somehow.'' His light green eyes searched Madrigal's face. ''I don't mean for you to think I've some kind of hold over you, m'Lady. Please believe me... I don't want to make trouble for anyone.'' 

''I believe you, Jackie.'' Madrigal reached out one hand and took Jackie's. ''I will do this thing for you, because I believe slavery is a terrible thing, and because no man deserves to be treated as you have. I would have done this even if you had not seen me on the stairs last night; if you had only come and asked.'' She smiled, suddenly sure her decision was the right one. ''And you will come back with us to Inishowen, if you wish. I am sure my Lady Cat will be willing to provide you a place.'' 

''Truly?'' Jackie's eyes shone with unshed tears. ''Truly, m'Lady?'' When Madrigal nodded, he kissed the hand that held his own. ''I swear you will not regret this, m'Lady! I swear it!'' 

Madrigal sighed. ''I will regret nothing. But you must promise me you will not tell Lady Cat what you saw. I will tell her myself, in my own time. I do not want her to become upset. She has not been well.'' 

Jackie nodded eagerly. ''Yes, of course, m'Lady! I'll hold my tongue, I promise.'' 

''Why did you come to me, Jackie? Why not beg your freedom from one of the other lords or their ladies? I am curious, because you told me you did not want to make trouble by telling what you know.'' 

Jackie considered. ''Well... I'd heard you were a slave before the Lady Cathelin freed you. I figured you'd be more sympathetic than any of the others. Besides, I really had nothing to lose, did I?'' 

Before Madrigal could reply, the bedroom door burst open, revealing Cathelin, her face bright scarlet with rage. 
 

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

The door slammed shut behind her. ''Well?'' Cathelin asked, seemingly oblivious to the dwarf who'd clambered down from his stool and hastened to a corner of the room. ''T'is waiting I am for an explanation.'' 

Madrigal blinked. This was an unexpected development. She would have to be very careful not to give herself away until she knew what Cathelin was talking about. ''An explanation of  what, Lady Cat?'' she replied, hiding her suddenly shaking hands in the folds of her skirt. 

Cathelin drew in a deep breath. When she spoke, her tone was soft, but this was deceptive; inside, the Irishwoman was at the point of raging. ''An explanation, Madri, of why I slept so suddenly and deeply last night after no more than a single cup of wine in our bedchamber... an explanation of why I wake up this morning, and you all but toss me out of our room on my ear... and an explanation of why Duke William of Northanger was found dead in the early hours.'' 

Madrigal stared at her mate, dark purple eyes wide. ''I don't...,'' she began, but the denial stuck in her throat. 

''Well?'' Cathelin crossed her arms over her chest, and for the first time, acknowledged the trembling Jackie's presence. ''And while you're at it, my wife, p'raps you'll also be explaining why I find the King's jester here, in our bedchamber, no less, consorting with you in God knows WHAT manner! By the Lord Jesus, Madrigal!'' She stopped, drawing a deep breath, then continued in what was almost a shout, ''What ELSE did you get up to in the night? Will I next be finding the King with his throat slit? A parade of guardsmen traipsing through with their breeks around their knees? How dare you, woman? How DARE you?" 

Throughout Cathelin's tirade, Madrigal had been silent. Now, however, she rose from her chair fluidly and faced her angry mate. ''I dared because I had to,'' she replied, swallowing her own outrage at Cathelin's ridiculous accusations. ''I dared because the Duke would have kept us beneath his heel for all time to come. I dared because he would have been like a naked sword hanging above our heads, and our lives would have been blighted, and our children's and grand-children's. Was his death at my hands so different from the O'Brian's at yours?'' 

Madrigal walked to Cathelin, then gracefully sank to her knees, bowing her head to the floor in a profound obeisance as she had been taught so many years ago. ''If I dared, it was because of my love for you.'' Her hands lifted and extended, palm up. ''But only a free woman would have dared to risk so much. It is obvious you do not consider me free enough to take action where I deem necessary. Do with me as you will, Lady Cathelin.'' She turned her head to one side, baring her neck. ''My life is not my own; this slave has displeased you and submits herself to you for a master's justice.'' 

Cathelin croaked, ''Get up.'' She had not moved an inch. 

Madrigal remained where she was, although her arms began to shake from the strain of remaining uplifted. 

''I said, get up!'' Cathelin was near tears; and when Madrigal meekly sat back on her heels, head bowed, hands behind her back, she said, ''How can you still be believing you're a slave? Did I not free you? Did I not wed you lawfully in the ancient way, in the eyes of my people; raise you up and make of you an equal to myself?'' 

Madrigal replied softly, ''Yes. You have done all these things. And have I not done as much as I could as well?'' She raised her face and Cathelin's heart convulsed when she saw her mate's cheeks were wet with tears. ''Have I not done the duties you saw fit to give me? Have I not welcomed you in my bed and given you pleasure even when I did not truly feel as if I wanted to? Have I not smiled when I was sad, laughed when I wished to cry, been cheerful and obedient and done all I could to ease your burdens?'' 

''Madri...'' Cathelin was shocked. ''Sweetling...'' 

''When you were wounded, I took upon myself your responsibilities as well; your people, our people, looked to me to make decisions for the castle and its lands. In battle, I have killed for you, even though I am not a warrior as you are. I have defended Inishowen, cared for our children, and been a loyal wife to you in all things. ALL THINGS! I have sinned against Allah for you, my soul in jeopardy of Shaitan's icy hell! I have given myself to you completely, Lady Cat. And now you accuse me of terrible things, insult me, and ask me how I dare? I ask you the same question! How do YOU dare to say these things to ME?'' 

Madrigal rose from the floor in one smooth motion and continued, ''You say I am no slave? Then DO NOT treat me as one! You say I am your equal? Then treat me as such! Yes, I killed the Duke.'' She took a deep breath. ''I did not ask your permission, Lady Cat, because I knew you would not allow it. And, as you say, I am free. So... I admit I deceived you, drugged you, and destroyed an evil man. One of your kerns could not have done so; they are far too visible. I, on the other hand, have had much practice in making myself invisible, as a servant is seen yet unseen. I alone am guilty of murder. It was my decision, my deed. And I do not apologize for it.'' 

Cathelin's mind was reeling. Had she truly treated Madrigal so... so... casually? To her shame, as memories rose unbidden... she had. The years they had been together - for much of that time, she had taken her mate for granted with a cavalier attitude that now amazed her. And Madrigal's accusation of her being insensitive in bed. She now realized this was true as well. ''Oh, sweetling, why did you not tell me? If I forced you...'' She could not say the word 'rape' aloud. 

''I could not.'' Madrigal half turned her face away. ''I owe you so much.'' 

''And now this.'' Cathelin began to cry. ''Madri, the Duke's death means nothing to me, truly. I spoke from fright; can you imagine what the King would be doing to you if he knew the truth? For the murder of his favored councilor? Beheading would be a kindly fate. T'will be my everlasting sorrow that you bore this alone, when I should have been there. Please... I do not want to lose you.'' 

She moved closer to Madrigal, wanting to touch her but hesitant. ''I cannot. My soul would wither and die without you. I did not mean those things I said; I was angry, but mostly with myself, and spoke in haste.'' 

When Madrigal did not reply, Cathelin continued, ''You are right; you are not a warrior or battle trained. Duke William was both. I'm not knowing how you killed the man, or made is seem an accident, but... if you had not succeeded, Madri, you'd be imprisoned or dead yourself. T'was a dangerous thing you did, and t'is right you are that you risked much. The cause was just; I only wish you'd trusted enough to tell me. But,'' she said hastily as Madrigal's eyes rose to hers, ''that is as may be, and over and done with, besides. It should have been me to crush the Widowmaker, but proud I am that I have such a mate as you, who would brave such dangers for the sake of love and be so clever about it, too.'' 

Madrigal searched Cathelin's face. ''I... I did a terrible thing, Lady Cat. To kill a man in the heat of battle is one thing; to destroy an enemy with cold calculation is another. But I found the strength and courage... because I knew if I did not, then you would be harmed.'' 

Cathelin touched Madrigal's arm. ''I know.'' She scrubbed her face with her free hand and sighed. ''And... there is something else as well. You are not a slave, sweetling. Not now, nor ever again. You owe me nothing, do you hear? There is no debt between us, nothing to be repaid. I did not realize I had been so...'' The words wouldn't come and she gulped past the lump in her throat. ''I've been... you should have...'' Finally, she burst out, ''If you've no wish to be loving me, Madri, say so! You'll not hurt my feelings! Well I know that what I wish is not always what you're wishing as well. I'll not seek another, I swear. But do not think you must, sweetling. That hurts me as well as you.'' 

Madrigal nodded. ''I have wronged you in this, I think,'' she said. ''Oh, I know you did not mean to be insensitive, Lady Cat. And I know you would never force my will. But, I felt obligated, for all that you've done for me.'' 

''All of which you've earned on your own merit and skills, not on your back!'' Cathelin took the final step that brought her own muscular body directly against Madrigal's softness, and she carefully put her arms around the other woman. ''I'd no idea you felt so. T'is my fault as well, for being blind and such a fool. I meant no hurt to you, sweetling. Believe that. And I am proud of you, although I don't take kindly to being drugged like an oak sacrifice.'' 

Madrigal slid her arms around Cathelin, hands pressed to her mate's back. ''I was wrong to deceive you. But do you feel I was wrong to kill the Duke?'' 

''Have you not been listening, Madri? No, you were not wrong... although I admit you right in saying I'd have done everything in my power to stop you if I'd known what you were planning. Not because I think of you as a slave, beloved; but because I would not see you hurt.'' 

''Then you are not angry?'' 

''Nay. Not truly.'' Cathelin squeezed Madrigal tightly. ''He was a devious, heartless wretch who deserved killing. He may have been titled and a powerful man, but he had no honor, and in my own eyes, no matter what you did, t'was no more than the will of God. And there's an end to that bad bit of business. Ah, sweetling, I do love you.'' 

''Well, next time I will be sure and...'' 

Cathelin interrupted. ''Pray God there BE no next time!'' She chuckled, then kissed the top of Madrigal's head. ''Now... there is one other thing about which I'm eaten alive with curiosity...'' 

Madrigal tilted her face until she could look into Cathelin's amber eyes. ''Yes?'' she asked softly. 

''What in God's name is that jester doing in here?'' 

Two sets of eyes turned to Jackie, who gave the women a weak wave and plopped down abruptly on the floor. 
 

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Jackie Manikin proudly smoothed the front of his new blue tunic, stitched by Madrigal's own hand in a pattern of bees and blossoms. It had been specially tailored to accomodate his twisted body and was by far the finest thing he'd ever owned. 

True to her word, Madrigal had convinced Cathelin to buy the little man's contract of servitude from the King. A week after they'd returned to Inishowen, Cathelin had presented the contract to the astonished Jackie, explaining that he was no longer a slave; the weeping dwarf had consigned the document to the flames and burned his hated jester's suit as well. He'd then sworn himself to the O'Cameron clan's service, and to Madrigal's in particular; there was now nothing he would not do for the Muslim woman who had treated him as a human being - as a man - for the first time in his life. 

Jackie had, in the first flush of freedom, taken it upon himself to demonstrate his knife-throwing skills, honed by years of juggling and an almost supernatural aim. Wolf McLeod had immediately assigned the dwarf to protect Dragon and Honeycat. 

Wolf had explained to Cathelin, ''He's a wee fellow, I'll admit, but you should see him tossin' blades! I vow there's no equal ta his skills amongst th' kerns. He can nip a fly's wings from its body in midflight an' th' fly's no wiser till he falls. I'm thinkin'...'' Wolf had narrowed his icy blue eyes thoughtfully. ''His size an' such'll make a nasty surprise fer any assassins what might come sniffin' about, fer you've many enemies still, an' not all rest quietly in their graves.'' 

Cathelin, much to Jackie's delight, had agreed. 

Becca and Lugh were practically inseparable; in fact, many bets were being taken on just when the banns for the two would be published, for it was a forgone conclusion among the folk that the warrior and the newly adopted minstrel would be wed... and soon. 

The female population of the castle had collectively swooned when it became common knowledge that the romantically beautiful young man's heart had been given to the Half-Tongue; now plans for the wedding grew more complicated by the hour, and were debated, heatedly discussed and fought over in acrimonious, occasionally hair-pulling, spats. It seemed as if, since they could not have him, they would at least make sure the ceremony was a gratifyingly elaborate spectacle that would be talked about for generations. 

It was a matter of debate, too, as to whether any of Inishowen's unattached women would even survive the betrothal, so fierce was each partisan's rhetoric or fists; or so joked the men, who eyed all the fuss and declined to participate, preferring to make jests and good-natured cow's eyes at both Becca and Lugh - each of whom were red-faced with embarrassment over the whole thing. 

Jackie looked at his mistress, Madrigal - for that was how he thought of her - seated on the high dais beside the Lady of Inishowen. In only a few months, the little man had become completely enamored of the Muslim woman and utterly devoted to her, her children and her mate... although Lady Cathelin he still considered too formidable for familiarity, but definitely worthy of great respect and awe. Jackie's heart swelled in his breast; he considered Madrigal the most beautiful woman in all the world. 

''A song! A song!'' The shout went up from the tables in the dining hall, where torches blazed, casting dancing light and shadow on the colorful pennants that hung on the walls. 

With a nod, Jackie crossed to Lugh's side, climbing up on the table itself in order to be heard. Lugh, blue eyes shining and staring at a grinning Becca, strummed his harp and played a delicate air of his own composing, while the dwarf sang in a high, pure voice as sweet as an unbearded boy's: 

When the applause died down, Cathelin said quietly to Madrigal, ''Are you... I mean, do you wish...?'' She tugged at the neckline of her tunic. ''I mean to say, after the meal, are you...?'' 

Madrigal smiled. ''I know what you mean, Lady Cat. And the answer is yes.'' She laid aside her harp and held out a hand. ''Your mouth, far sweeter than the honeyed wine, let it wander where it will, and you I'll hold,'' she sang under her breath, and chuckled when Cathelin colored. 

Since their return to Inishowen, Cathelin had taken great care in not being too demanding... although not timid by any means, she had encouraged Madrigal to talk to her, tell her what was going on, and was contented with a kiss or two if that was all her mate was willing to give. Never again would she be so presumptive, the Irishwoman vowed. I love her far too much to be a selfish pig-dog again.

''What do you think of those two? Lugh and Becca?,'' Cathelin asked, changing the subject in order to calm the sudden skipping beat of her heart. 

''I think they make a fine couple,'' Madrigal replied thoughtfully. ''I do not know if it will last but they seem happy.'' 

''Aye.'' Cathelin leaned over further. ''And glad I am to see you happy again as well.'' She kissed the hand she held tenderly. 

Madrigal had suffered nightmares as a result of her killing of the Duke; it had taken intense sessions with Abbot Dominicus to allow her to come to the realization that despite the method, the man's murder had been justified. 

''The Lord has told us thou shalt not kill,'' the abbot had said, blue eyes staring into Madrigal's. ''However, one must not suffer evil lightly, either. T'was your sin of pride to take this deed upon yourself without consultin' your lawful mate; if she's forgiven you, an' you truly regret your deception, then I see no need for guilt.'' 

''But holy one! I killed that man...'' She had wrung her hands together in an agony of indecision. ''Not in self defense. He was unarmed.'' This had bothered her more than anything else; that she had killed an unarmed man, and not in honorable combat or battle-madness. 

Abbot Dominicus had snorted. ''My dear child, if what I've heard from Lady Cathelin is true, then I would say you were defendin' yourself, indeed! Oh, to be sure, he had not drawn steel against you, but the weapons he used were just as deadly. Make no mistake; William of Northanger was your enemy, an' while the battle you fought was one of words and foul plottin's, you could've ended up just as dead. An' your children, an' the Lady as well.'' 

He had cocked his head and continued, ''Self-flagellation is a sin, too, as is excessive guilt where no need exists for such. Don't wear out your knees over this, or your mind or your heart. If it comforts you, then pray to Allah for His forgiveness, an' I will pray to my God, too. But don't let the matter fester inside you, my child. Let it go... an' be free of the Duke forever, rather than allowin' him in death to put you in the captivity he did not in life. Grave-chains are terrible things, Lady Madrigal. Let it go.'' 

Madrigal now sighed, remembering the Abbot's kindness and wisdom. She had not thought herself capable of calculated murder; now she knew she was. Abbot Dominicus had pointed out to her that she was no saint; she was human, with all a human's failings, and that everyone, even himself, was capable of taking life if the need existed. She was not a monster; she had just needed to hear that from someone other than Lady Cat. 

Cathelin rose, tugging Madrigal to her feet. ''A toast!'' she called out, raising a goblet in her other hand. ''A toast to the Lady of my heart! My Madri, who has with courage, skill and wit has saved Inishowen, and myself, from many an enemy! To Madrigal!'' 

The company roared, ''To Lady Madrigal!'' and the sound of their approval and agreement rattled the ancient weapons on the stone walls of the hall. 

Madrigal blushed. 

Dragon and Honeycat, with the puppy Faithi curled up between them, clapped their hands together and squealed with delight, while Crimthan juggled her three small charges on her lap. ''Listen, babes! Yer mother's a hero!'' she called out, making Madrigal blush again. 

Jackie ran a hand through his flaxen hair, settled down on his bench and sighed happily. His Lady was well, he had finally found a home and his much dreamed-for freedom... and it looked as if life was going to be very fine, indeed. 
 

The End

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