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The baron’s face contorted in disgust, and some measure of fear; it was evident in his darting eyes, his trembling lip. “You always were a fool, Irish,” he spat, then, hesitating a beat, turned and started to walk away down the corridor.
Tadhg thrust his arm up, blocking the passageway, his palm planted on the far wall.
Sherwood stared at his arm, then looked up into his eyes. “Lower your arm, Irish, or I will kill you,” he said in low fury.
“Try.”
They stared at each other, silent and breathing hard.
“What is this?” said a voice from behind.
Tadhg immediately recognized the booming voice of the Scottish earl of Huntington. He didn’t turn, but Sherwood jerked a frantic glance over his shoulder, then snarled, “Goddamned Celts are everywhere.” He called out more loudly, “Leave off this, Huntington. You are not wanted here.”
Then, at the other end of the corridor, the king of England appeared.
Tall and regal, Richard stopped short at the sight of his bodyguard and one of his greatest barons staring each other down. Tadhg’s blade hung low, but was gripped tight in his fist.
Richard, no stranger to tension and battle, took a wary step forward. His boots crunched on the gritty dirt and sand of the floor. “Sherwood?” He glanced at the Scottish earl briefly, then looked to his bodyguard. “Tadhg?”
Casting him one fierce glance, Sherwood swirled away with a suave smile and said smoothly to the king, “We must speak, my liege. There is news. And…,” he threw Tadhg a bitter, furious look. “I have something for you.”
They walked off together. Tadhg stood behind in the cool corridor, the blood hot in his sword arm, watching them go.
“I do not think Sherwood likes you,” said the earl of Huntington as he came up, his voice not booming now, but low and confidential.
Tadhg gave a bark of cold laughter. “The feeling is mutual.”
“Watch out for him.”
“I do.”
“And look to yourself as well. Sherwood has the ear of powerful people.”
Tadhg shrugged. “The king is not easily fooled.”
“There are other ears in the world.” The earl ran his fingers through his beard, then laid a hand on Tadhg’s shoulder. “Should you run into any trouble, O’Malley, Scotland is not so far away from Ireland after all.”
“I have not been to Ireland in half my life,” Tadhg said flatly.
Huntington looked down the corridor, to where Sherwood’s cloak was just flicking around the corner. “Perhaps it is time for a long visit.”
Tadhg closed his hand around
the earl’s forearm in a brief, hard clasp. “My thanks, my lord.”
The earl lifted his bearded chin with a jerk. “Go see to the king. God knows what Sherwood has planned, but it’s sure to be god-awful. He’ll need someone he can trust by his side.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
MAGGIE STILL SAT astride him, listening hard, her eyes never leaving his, her hand softly stroking his arm.
“So this is the thing they want,” she murmured. “This dagger, this proof of the king’s treachery. That is terrible.”
“Aye, that it is.”
“And you said nothing of Sherwood’s intent?”
Tadhg shrugged. “To whom would I have said it? If I’d have roused the hue and cry, it would have been my word against Sherwood’s. And,” he added in a grim voice, “perhaps the king’s. There was nothing noble about this deed from beginning to end, Maggie, from the king on down. Sherwood did indeed save the king by taking the dagger, but he meant to use it to betray the king for his own purposes.”
