Master of Shadows

  Reese handed Sylas the keys to the cells. “Hurry. I don’t know how much longer the drugs will keep her unconscious.”

  Once the castellan had left them, Reese turned to face Saetta. “The besiegers will be coming through that door any moment.”

  “I know that,” he said. “But I have you.”

  “I am no prize, maréchal.” Reese wearily took the last vial from her pocket, drank it, and resumed the appearance of Will’s mortal lover. She had to brace herself against the edge of the table to keep from collapsing. “I suggest you put down your weapons and recall whatever men you have left.”

  He looked up as they heard the sound of men running toward the hall. “Perhaps you are right.”

  Reese moved over to the fire and sat on the edge of the hearth. The stone had been warmed by the flames, but she felt so cold she could barely feel it. She had saved Rebecca, but for what? In a few days they would all be dead.

  Someone lifted her up, and she opened her eyes to see Will’s face. “You can leave me here.”

  “No, sweetheart,” he said as he carried her out of the room. “I’m never doing that again.”

  They must have worked him over for hours, Sylas thought, putting a hand to his ribs as he felt them slowly knitting. He could barely walk, and had to take the stairs one step at a time, but he could smell her now, her sweet scent all around him.

  When he reached the holding cell, Sylas saw her inside. She looked so pale, so helpless. He had long known about her talent, but she had never set it loose upon the world. This angelic creature, his wife, commanded the power of an army.

  He opened the door and stepped inside, feeling the relief of being with her again with every step. Carefully he lowered himself beside her, putting his arm over her and resting his cheek against hers.

  “Sylas.” Her eyes fluttered. “’Tis you.”

  “Aye, my lady.” He kissed her. “I am here.”

  “I was looking for you, I think, and then…” She frowned as she tried to focus, and her expression changed. “Why are we in the dungeon?”

  “It is a long story.” He climbed onto the mattress with her, and held her against his chest.

  She cuddled against him and sighed with sleepy contentment. “Is the siege over?”

  “Yes, my lady. You are home.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It took the rest of the night to carry out the dead, and part of the next day to bury them. The survivors of the siege were removed to the dungeons, and held in the same cell where they had imprisoned the garrison. The men of Rosethorn buried their friends along with their enemies, and while there was talk of justice, no one spoke of revenge.

  Will Scarlet held council with his men before he assembled them outside the main hall and sent guards to bring the survivors before him for judgment.

  Rebecca’s attack had wiped out two-thirds of the contessa’s forces, but Saetta still led the small group of cavalieri. He came forward slowly, his movements hampered by the copper chains and manacles binding his hands and feet. Someone had torn open his shirt, revealing the old burn scars on his chest.

  “You attacked this stronghold without provocation,” Will said. “We offered you sanctuary, and you used that against us. You violated our trust and betrayed your duty, and among our kind, there is no greater offense. The last time it happened, an entire jardin was put to the blade.” He paused and looked into the war master’s eyes. “I know. I was there.”

  “You may do as you wish with me,” Saetta told Will. “Make me your slave, imprison me, starve me slowly. I will not resist.”

  “It would not matter if you did.” Will studied the other man’s eyes. “You want something in return, I imagine.”

  With difficulty Saetta dropped down on his knees and bowed his head. “In this, my men but followed my orders. They fought for their lady with dignity and honor. I beg you wield your dagger swiftly, and grant them the coup de grâce.”

  The coup de grâce, the swift and merciful end by a thin-bladed dagger through a chink in the armor, administered by a brother in arms.

  Will stood watching the impassive faces of the cavalieri. They stared straight ahead, their features tight with leashed emotion. For a moment he felt as if centuries vanished, and he once again faced his blood Kyn across the field of battle. They had looked exactly the same as they advanced on Richard’s troops, led by Guisbourne in his black and silver battle armor. Walking into hell with their eyes open and their hearts torn to pieces.

  He looked down at Saetta. “First, you will tell me who you were.”

  Saetta lifted his head. “Guiliano da Sangallo.”

  Not a war master, but a master builder. “If you are da Sangallo, then you built fortresses for princes. Kings. A Kyn building for mortals.”

  “My family has been masters of siegecraft since the First Crusade,” Saetta said. “It was my trade. My mortal patrons never knew what I was.”

  Will almost believed him. “How do a sculptor and an architect of castles come to serve as maréchal to Contessa Borgiana?”

  “My wife was her cousin. When the Brethren took control of the Vatican after Alexander died, we knew it was only a matter of time before they discovered us. I took my family out of Rome and offered my service to Lord Arno in exchange for protection for my wife and daughter.” His voice changed. “It made no difference in the end. The Brethren still found us and murdered them. If not for the contessa, I would have joined them.”

  In the terrible gray days after the change, when Will had learned of Claris’s death from the plague, he had considered leaving Robin and Sherwood, and ending his miserable life. Then Robin had chosen him as his seneschal, and for some time the constant duty and work of protecting his master had been all that kept him from joining his love in sweet oblivion.

  Saetta had no longer had any purpose or interest in life.

  “Stand up,” Will said. When the Italian got to his feet, Will gestured to the English courier Richard had sent. “Tell them everything you told me.”

  It took some time for the courier to recount the events that had taken place, beginning with the assassination of Arno during the jardin wars. As Saetta listened, his mask of indifference slowly began to fall away. By the time the courier had finished his tale, the master builder’s eyes were filled with rage.

  “There is proof of what you say?” Will asked the courier.

  “Suzerain Geoffrey has footage from his security cameras,” the courier said. “The high lord’s seigneurs were present and can verify everything I have told you. Some of the contessa’s men survived. I cannot say how much longer they will live, but they, too, can give testimony of her deeds.”

  “Are you satisfied?” Will asked.

  “Her treachery made fools of us all.” Saetta glanced back at his men for a moment before facing Will. “We cannot even beg for mercy, not for what she has done. Do as you will with us.”

  “Hold.” Sylas stepped out of the shadows, Rebecca at his side. “I would speak for the captives.”

  “You would?” Will turned to him. “You suffered more at their hands than anyone, castellan.”

  “My father once told me that revenge is a hell we build for our enemies, but willingly cast ourselves in.” He kissed his wife’s temple before reluctantly moving away from her. “Guiliano da Sangallo kept his oath to his lord, and served his lady in good faith. I ask mercy for him and his men, seneschal.”

  “They killed your second,” Will reminded him.

  Sylas nodded. “And they lost fifty of their friends.”

  “If we’re not going to kill anyone else,” Lucan drawled, “I’m taking my men and going home to my woman.”

  Rebecca came forward. “I would speak to this man.” Without waiting for permission, she went to Saetta. “You could have killed my husband at any time. He was helpless whenever he left his body. You knew in the end that he was in the shadows. Why did you spare his life?”

  “I saw you smile at him the first night
we came.” His eyes met hers. “My wife had the same smile for me.”

  She looked at him for a long time before she spoke again. “You will be with her again someday.” She turned to Will. “I, too, ask mercy for these men.”

  “There is territory to the north that belongs to Lord Locksley,” Will said. “It is rough and overgrown, but the land is good. I have always wished to build a retreat there for the suzerain, but there has never been enough time to see to it. Twenty men working together with a master builder could make much of it, I think.”

  Saetta stared at him. “Why would you do this for us?”

  “On the contrary, you would do this for your new lord,” Will said. “After you pledge him your lives and loyalty, of course. I have good reason to believe you would die before you would betray him.”

  Saetta’s dull eyes came alive. “A retreat, you say?”

  “One that demands no quarter,” Will said, “and no more blood be spilled.” He held out his hand. “Do you agree, master builder?”

  Saetta clasped Will’s forearm. “With all my heart, seneschal.”

  Lucan immediately moved his men into the stronghold, but remained at the camp with Jayr and mac Byrne to help guard the perimeter, this time against any mortal intrusion. Will arranged for more stores to be delivered, and went down that night to assure that the suzeraina and her men had everything they needed.

  When he arrived in camp, Will saw Jayr come out of her tent, only to heave something into the forest. The object struck a tree trunk and exploded as she became a blurry streak of motion. By the time Will blinked, she had vanished.

  “Cyprien does not need an army,” Lucan said as he came to stand beside Will. “He can simply ask Alexandra to phone his enemies.”

  Will knew of only one thing that could have made the suzeraina so angry. “I will go to her.”

  The former assassin crouched and prodded the fire with a gnarled branch. “Somehow I doubt she will wish to be comforted by her father’s best friend.”

  Will looked down at him. “You knew.”

  “I guessed.” The suzerain straightened. “Good God, man, she is the very image of Robin, especially when she uses a bow.” He studied Will’s expression. “You have long been her friend. Why did you never tell her?”

  “Until the winter tournament, when she was made lady paramount, I never knew.” Will ducked his head. “When we took her and mac Byrne from a pit trap, I saw the mark of her birth for the first time. ’Twas exactly the same as the mark Robin once had. One he cut from his chest after Marian died.” He glanced in the direction Jayr had run. “Then I did not know what to think.” He saw mac Byrne and the patrol approaching. “Or say.”

  Lucan followed his gaze. “I will deal with her lord. You go and see to the lady.”

  Will tracked Jayr for half a mile before he found her standing on a hill overlooking the estate. He kept back and watched her for a time, but she didn’t move.

  Suddenly she turned and looked at him. “Do you come to apologize or explain?” She didn’t wait for his answer as she strode down to him. “How will you make amends for him? Do you mean to tell me more of his lies?”

  “I came as your friend.”

  “My friend.” She laughed. “Will Scarlet, second to Robin of Locksley, the eyes at his back, his third blade. Friend to his bastard daughter. It does not have the same ring of honor to it, does it?”

  He saw that her eyes had turned the same shade of violet as Robin’s, and felt the violence radiating from her like the heat of fever. “He never took me into his confidence about the matter, my lady.”

  “That makes two of us.” She halted and glanced up at the sky. “There is a plane waiting for me in Atlanta. I must depart as soon as I can reach it. Then to England, to have Cyprien’s leech punch holes in my bones. All for the thieving liar who fathered me in rape and then made himself my friend. So that I might save his life.”

  “Robin would never have forced Marian.” Will caught her fist before it connected with his jaw. “Jayr, he loved her.”

  “So proud was he of this love,” she said with a sneer, “that he could not wait to claim me as his child. Oh, but I forget—he handed that honor to Guisbourne at the winter tourney.”

  Will felt miserable, both for her and for his master. “I cannot say why Rob chose to do as he has. I only know that Marian was his sun and moon, and you the stars. Why do you think he came so often to the Realm?”

  The rage abruptly left her, and she shook her head. “I cannot understand this. Robin and I have known each other since Bannockburn. He might have told me a thousand times.

  “I hold his fate in my hands,” Jayr said. “If I do not go to England this night, Alexandra says he will die.”

  “A dead man can tell you nothing,” Will said carefully. “Save him and he will be in your debt. Make your price the answers you seek.”

  “So that when he tells me I can kill him?” She gave him a jaded look. “I may as well spare myself the journey.”

  “Whatever Robin has done,” he reminded her, “when you lay dying at Bannockburn, he saved you. You owe him for that.”

  “Is that how you see it? A life for a life?” She threw out her arms. “What of my mother? He raped her. My birth killed her. What does he owe for her life? What do I?”

  “All I can tell you is this: When we returned from the Crusades, he left me in Sherwood and went to Scotland,” Will told her. “When he finally came back, he looked like a ghost of himself. He wouldn’t speak or rest or eat. If anyone came near him, he would draw his sword. Then he went into the forest and challenged every outlaw, murderer, and thief who crossed his path. ’Twas how he became their prince.”

  Jayr made an impatient gesture. “What of it?”

  “There were women in Sherwood Forest, too. Young, old, plain, and beautiful, and none of them could stay away from him. They followed him about like lovesick girls,” Will said softly. “He could have taken any of them, but he wouldn’t touch them.”

  “So he spared a few peasants his dubious charms—”

  “Rob didn’t touch any woman for a hundred years.” He saw the shock appear in her eyes. “Does that sound to you like a man who cares nothing for the right of a woman to refuse him?”

  She moved away from him, her back rigid, and stood staring down at the lake for a long, silent interval. Finally she turned. “I will go.”

  “I will come with you, my lady.”

  “You are needed here.” She glanced back toward the camp. “She is awake now, but she will not leave your tent. She awaits you.”

  “Does she.” Will had been avoiding Claris since bringing her to the camp. “I must deal with the Italians first.”

  “In truth, she is the one who saved Rosethorn,” Jayr said. “Remember that, seneschal.”

  Claris watched Will follow the suzerain out of camp, and stepped back into the tent. She knew his duties demanded much of him, but each time he came to the camp, he never even bothered to look in on her.

  He must hate her now.

  Suddenly she couldn’t bear to spend another moment among the Kyn, and grabbed her bag. She found that she still had the keys to the camper, and hurried off to it. But where would she go from here? No one wanted her. No one cared.

  I will release you from your vow.

  Father still did not know the truth. She had not found the book, but it had not been here. Guisbourne had stolen it from Locksley, and now Locksley would deliver it into the hands of the contessa. They had assumed the wrong things, had acted on the wrong information. It was her duty to tell her father that she had failed.

  Claris drove out of camp, unaware of the vehicle following her. She drove too fast, but she couldn’t wait to reach the house where her father waited. She felt as frantic as Rebecca, as determined as Sylas. She ran up the drive and into the house, but came to a halt as she saw that all the furnishings had been draped with white dust cloths.

  “Father?”

  She hurried
to his library, but the chair by the fireplace sat empty. No fire burned; only a thin layer of ash covered the brick. The desk had been cleared of his papers, the books removed from his shelves. The only trace of life she saw was a bottle half-filled with wine that sat on one of the tables. He must have drunk some of it before he had gone.

  He had abandoned her.

  “Claris.”

  She turned to see Will and Lucan behind her. “What are you doing here?”

  “We had nothing better to do than hare around Atlanta after you.” Lucan strolled over to her father’s chair and sat down. “I suppose a glass of wine would be utterly out of the question.”

  “Is this where you were living?” Will asked.

  “We leased the house when we came to America.” Numbly she went over to the desk and opened one of the drawers. His pens were gone. “My father must have gone back to England.”

  “My mother tried that once—moving away in the dead of night and not telling me where.” Lucan studied his fingernails. “Damned decent of her, I always thought.”

  A man in a black robe stepped into the room. “I waited for you, child.”

  “Father.”

  “This is your father?” Will saw the embroidered red Templar cross on the man’s robe and drew his dagger. “A Brethren priest? You did all this for him?”

  “It is true. I sent Claris to infiltrate your ranks in order to steal The Maiden’s Book of Hours,” he continued as if Will hadn’t spoken. “Everything she has done has been on my orders.”

  “Reese?” she asked.

  “I have returned the young lady to her apartment,” he said. “She suffered no ill effects from being our guest, and her new fiancé has also been dealt with.”

  Will stared at him. “I know you.” His expression darkened. “You were the priest sent to Aubury. Ennis of Worcester. The inquisitor.” He whipped around toward Claris. “You pledged yourself to this butcher?”

  She looked past him. “Father, please.”

  “She has served me faithfully these seven hundred years,” Ennis said. “Almost from the moment I rose from my grave to walk the night.”