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Chapter Forty-Eight
THE MOON WAS RISING. Magdalena stumbled alone up the pockmarked road. Rippling white stripes reflected in the muddy puddles, shattering whenever she stepped directly into ones too large to avoid. Her skirts hems grew damp, then bedraggled, and still she went on.
Ahead was a bleak stony castle, a single tower surrounded by a jagged wall. One of Lord Sherwood’s untended orphan castles, miles outside the city, on this lonely road, used for hunts and secret meetings and whatever other dark purposes he might wish to conduct within its lonely, barren walls.
Maggie pulled the cloak tighter around her head and pulled it across the lower half of her face, fighting the winds that struck her head-on and tore at her cloak, wrapping her skirts around her shins so tight she almost stumbled and fell a few times. It was as if even the winds did not want her to do this thing.
Battling the elements and her own fear, she finally reached the walls that surrounded the tower.
She rapped on the gate.
A guard came out. Mistrustful eyes peered out at her from under a helm. She told him who she was.
Leaving her to stand in the winds, he went inside. A moment later, he returned, swung the rusting gate open, and ushered her inside.
SHE WAS TAKEN to the great hall. Sherwood sat there, at the high table. He was the epitome of wealth and a life of ease. His beard was neatly trimmed, he wore a velvet surcoat, and wore a multitude of rings on his fingers. All but the broken one, she noted as she stepped inside.
Sherwood got to his feet as she came forward. “Magdalena. I did not believe them. I thought it some trickery.”
Her skirts rustled as she drew to a halt. The walls of the narrow room rose twenty feet, with arched beams and a minstrel’s gallery above, a low fire trough filled with flickering flames running down the length of its planked floor. And upon the dark dais, lit by only a few candles, stood Sherwood.
“You overestimate my importance, my lord,” she said softly. “Who would use my name to engage in trickery? No one here in England knows me.”
“And therein lies your problem,” he guessed.
She nodded and came forward into the firelit room.
“How can I assist, madame?”
She looked around, not expecting to see Tadhg, but hoping nonetheless. “I…I recall you made an offer, sir.”
“I did.”
“Does it still stand?”
“Well,” he said, stepping off the dais. “I admit, I am tempted to offer you assistance, but my original offer was contingent upon you giving me something in return. Unfortunately for you, I now have what I sought.”
“I have something you want even more.”
His eyes held hers, then he blew out a breath through his nostrils, a soft, bitter laugh. “He gave it to you.”
“He gave it to me. And I will give it to you.”
His eyes held hers, then, with a faint smile, he held up his hands, open and empty. “Name your price, my lady.”
“Tadhg.”
That turned his smile cold, but did not wipe it away entirely. “Indeed? You consider that a fair trade?”
“I do.”
He dropped his hands and smiled at her. “And yet, for me to release a declared traitor, a known outlaw…that would be treason on my conscience, madame. ’Tis my duty to see him brought to justice.”
“Perhaps the riches you will incur as result of whatever you plan to do with the dagger will help to allay any discomfort the state of your conscience might momentarily cause.”
“Ah, yes. The money. Is that what you think it is about?” He came close enough to touch her, but didn’t.
“What else is there?” she asked as he circled her.
