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“Betray your noble king who would see to the murder of another,” she said softly.
He could not contest any of it.
Her gaze was steady and appraising in the firelight, and Tadhg felt how tight his jaw was clamped, how cold his blood felt, under that watchful regard. Then she slid cool fingertips across his chest, accepting him nonetheless. “And yet, you serve him still?”
“I do, for the alternatives are far, far worse.”
“You speak of my king.” Her words level, neither jest nor indignation, her eyes as complicated as ever.
“Philippe is not the only alternative, lass, nor the worst among them, but for all that, your king is one of the most conniving men in all of Christendom,” he said tiredly. “The best thing about him is that he will one day die. He has a single talent: destroying others. Look to the company he keeps: Prince John is his constant plaything.”
“Our kings are not good men, no,” she agreed softly.
Tadhg’s hand tightened on her hips. “We do not need them to be good men. We need them to be good kings. And Richard is better than Philippe, by leagues and leagues.”
For a long time the hut was quiet, filled only by the low rush and occasional crackle of the fire. Maggie looked at the dagger and Tadhg looked at her. Thoughts and emotions crossed her face like clouds; the pained arch of an eyebrow, the slight shake of her head. He gave her all the time she needed. Finally she shifted on his hips and looked down at him.
“How did the dagger come to you?” she asked softly.
He laid his head back in the hay and curled his fingers around her hips, holding on.
“The king gave it to me outside Vienna, just before he was captured, half-fevered, hiding in the kitchens as a kitchen boy, he gave it to me and bid me get it safely back to England. Sherwood saw.”
THE KING HANDED HIM the dagger. “Take it, Irish, take it and run hard.”
Tadhg took it, then grabbed the king’s hand. “Ride with me.”
Haggard from a fever that would not leave, Richard shook his shaggy head. “I haven’t the strength. And it will not be so bad, eh?” He grinned weakly. “We’ve been on the road a long time, Irish. I could use a featherbed for a change. Rest assured, I will make it home, at some great cost to England, but I will make it. But if anyone finds this,” he gestured at the dagger, “there will be no England for me to go to.” He grasped Tadhg’s wrist. “I shall reward you greatly.” The king dropped a heavy pouch of money into his hand. “Land, titles. You shall be a great lord.”
Tadhg smiled faintly as he took it and shoved it under his cloak. “Once I was known as tighearna ba agus láib.”
“What is that?” the king asked, stripping another pouch of money free.
“Lord of Cows and Mud. ’Twas a jest, for at the time, I longed for greatness.”
The king slapped the second pouch of money into his hand. “Christ’s blood, Irish, I can make you lord of more than that. You shall sit among the great and mighty for your loyalty and sacrifice here.”
“I do not want greatness anymore, sire. I just want to go home.”
“Consider it done.” He unclasped the cloak around his shoulders and tossed it to Tadhg; it was heavier than his own, a finer weave, thicker, warmer. “Take the dagger to William the Marshal. He is at his townhouse in the city; he is lodging there permanently during my absence, to oversee the administration. And my wily brother,” the king added, unlacing a final pouch and handing it over. “It is up to you, Tadhg, all of it. Get it to the Marshal, and you will have done me well. You shall have the undying gratitude of a king.”
“Unless you die,” Tadhg pointed out as he buckled the belt around his hips.
Richard laughed, as he so often did with Tadhg. It was half the reason he kept him so close. The other half was Tadhg’s deadly skill with the blade. “Unless that, Irish. But I will not die. I am worth too much alive. And there will be featherbeds.” Richard clapped him on the shoulder one last time.
Tadhg turned for the alley door just as boots clattered into the kitchen entryway behind them. They spun.
Sherwood stood in the opening behind them. And behind him stood a phalanx of foreign soldiers. The baron looked at Richard, then at Tadhg. His gaze dropped to the dagger.
“Run,” murmured the king.
Sherwood took a quick step forward. “I advise against it, Irish. Whatever the king has offered you, I shall pay you more.”
Tadhg broke and ran. He forwent the stables and moved instead through alleyways, doubling back ceaselessly, occasionally passing through an open shop, front door to back, then pausing to feign attentive Christmas shopping outside the counter of a toymaker or a barbette stand, while always, on the next block over, or sometimes even through his own, soldiers moved in packs, searching the streets and the buildings and the occasional unlucky villager.
Finally, when darkness fell and the winter air bit hard, Tadhg stole a horse. He left a pile of coins on the wooden frame of the manger, then rode hell-bent into the snowy night, aiming for the craggy, inhospitable mountains, and thence, to home.
MAGGIE’S BROW was furrowed with tension. “Dear God, Tadhg, you were a thousand miles from home. What happened?”
