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But Katarina felt safe. So odd, after all the years she’d lived here, closeted inside the thick stone walls, always faintly afraid, now, in the company of a rebel, riding on the open hills, she felt safe.
They entered Rardove’s bustling bailey as evening fell. Abuzz with villagers and town folk and castle folk and even more Irish than when they had left, it was a faintly joyous mob scene as they rode through the gates. Wagons and cartloads and bushels of foodstuffs were being brought in from the surrounding countryside, and riders were constantly coming and going, bearing messages and burdens. Rardove had the air of celebration, of fête or fair, not preparation for a battle. Their hopes were high.
Because Aodh’s were.
They had barely removed their hoods and were standing in front of the hearth, shaking mist off their cloaks. when a messenger arrived, pushing through the bustle with a missive for Katarina.
“From whom?” she asked, surprised.
“The mistress of Carrickdon,” the messenger said with a bow. “Inquiring as to your health and the coming spring fair. She has sent a gift for you too, my lady.” He handed over a small package.
Aodh and she exchanged a silent glance. The soldiers’ gazes flitted from her to the package to Aodh. Then to her.
They did not yet, did not quite, trust her.
She extended the package to Aodh. He gave a curt nod and waved one of his men forward, who took it and tore it open.
It was a little bundle of lace, wrapped in linen, with a note from one Lady Carrickdon, which spoke of the coming spring fair, and suggesting that if Rardove had any wool fells, they would fetch a fair price.
Katarina had had a friendly correspondence for many years with Carrickdon’s mistress. She was older, widowed, and resided within the Pale, but she was of old English stock, very loyal, very dependable, and Katarina felt a small knot of discomfort in her throat, thinking of how the news of this rebellion would be perceived by the venerable old lady.
Aodh read the letter in its entirety twice, and one of his men examined the fat little bundle of lace skeptically, but as it was difficult to hide weapons in lace, everything was finally handed over to her.
Katarina sat at the dais table while the others settled down to drink and storytelling before the evening meal was served. She unfolded the lace across the table to examine it more closely, and went cold when she felt a thick lining along its edge.
She slid out a small, tightly folded scrap of parchment with a message written on it.
In mercy, We give you one chance to regain our goodwill: turn over the traitor. Impressing upon you the importance of this deed, we leave the means and methods to your discretion. If none should appear, on the second night after our army arrives, leave the back postern gate open, and our captain will send in a man.
Burn this missive, and you shall not suffer the same fate.
Oh dear God, it was a terrible cycle, everything a mirror of the past, winding its way back down to this moment.
She felt so cold, she began trembling. She was her father’s daughter. Her mother’s daughter. Branded a traitor in her sovereign’s eye, she now had one last chance to avoid a traitor’s death.
Turn her back on her Irish consort. Turn her back on Aodh.
In her secret heart, Katarina had long ago turned her back on her father and mother. Repudiated everything about her father and his overweening passion, his treason. Rejected utterly her mother’s rejection of her. She had no parents, only a queen.
She had promised the queen, and herself, that she would be different. She would be the loyal subject her mother and father had not been.
Now was her chance to prove it.
She’d thought all she would have to do to prove her loyalty was marry the wrong man. Not see to the death of the right one.
Merriment abounded in the great hall, strings of lute and masculine laughter, the soft murmur of female voices drifting throughout. She finally looked up. No one seemed to notice her. How long had she been staring at the paper?
A fire burned in the hearth, a foot to her right.
Aodh stood with his men in a group before the long trough fire in the center of the hall, but as she looked his way, she saw he was watching her.
The choice was here, now. The fire of flames, or the fire of Aodh.
She got to her feet and handed him the missive.
He read it by the light of the fire, then dropped it into the hearth. It contracted into thick, black curls, then combusted, subsumed into the larger fire. “Aodh, I— You must know I would never—”
He pulled her to him and murmured, “I would tell you to hush if I did not think you would bite me.”
