The Lady of Secrets (31 page)

“You have no right to be questioning me, especially in front of
her.
” Sir Patrick gestured toward Meg. “By God, Armagil, it is as though all the time I have known you counts for nothing. We have been friends for so long. I know you to be a good man, but it has pained me to watch how you have wasted your life. You are like a man who has been sleepwalking through all these years, numbing yourself to all feeling.

“When you are finally aroused enough to care, it is because of her. And you don’t even know who she is.”

“I know enough.”

“Does he, Mistress Wolfe?” Sir Patrick rounded on her. “I doubt that, or instead of asking me about those witches, he would be asking what you know.”

“Not enough,” Meg replied. “Or I would have tried to stop them ere now.”

“Would you? That silver rose that you have stowed away so carefully in your bag—it is the emblem of Megaera.”

Meg steeled herself not to react to the name, but her hands clenched involuntarily in the folds of her skirt.

“I am sure you have heard of Megaera, have you not, Gil?” Sir Patrick stared at his friend steadily. “You do remember we discussed the sorceress who was worshipped by Tamsin Rivers?”

“Vaguely. I was probably drunk at the time.”

“Do you even wonder how Mistress Wolfe knows so much about these poisoned roses?”

“I merely consider myself fortunate that she did.”

“Or how she was so easily able to lift the curse that Tamsin Rivers placed upon the king?”

“Did she?” Blackwood cast a surprised look at Meg.

“Did you not ask her how her audience with the king went?”

“I was a trifle preoccupied with dying in agony. The matter slipped my mind.”

“And she did not tell you? How modest of her. Would you like to explain how you cured the king, Mistress Wolfe? Or shall I?”

“I appealed to his reason,” Meg said.

“Appealed or claimed power over it?” Sir Patrick turned earnestly to Blackwood. “She knows unholy magic, Armagil, a trick that she learned from other cunning women, something she calls the reading of the eyes. She admitted as much to the king and then she demonstrated her ability to divine thoughts, unravel his memories. She also has the power to bewitch, to seize possession of a man’s mind.”

“What utter rot,” Blackwood said.

“How else do you explain the hold she has gained over you? She is as much of a witch as those women threatening the king. Very likely, she also is a worshipper of this Megaera—”

“Enough.” Blackwood cut him off before Meg had a chance to defend herself. “Graham, it is high time you were elsewhere.”

Sir Patrick shook his head, but then vented a sigh of pure frustration. “I may as well be for all the good I am accomplishing
here. You are far too much under this witch’s spell to heed me. And I have a hanging to attend.

“I am sure it is nothing to you, but a good man is about to die today for no sin but being true to his faith.”

Blackwood’s jaw was set at a hard angle, but as Sir Patrick started for the door, he relented enough to try to prevent him. “Don’t be a fool, Graham. You cannot do that priest any good by being there and I am sure Salisbury will have his spies present, taking down names, noting the presence of other suspected Catholics.”

“The earl is well aware of my faith. Even if he wasn’t, it would be a risk I must take. I am tired of being a shadow Catholic, weary to my soul of the need for secrecy. The least that I can do for Father Gregoire is be there to pray for him, that he will be granted a swift and merciful end.”

“He won’t be,” Blackwood said grimly. “Gilly Black is very skilled at his trade.”

“Well, you would know that better than anyone else, wouldn’t you?”

With this last bitter retort, Sir Patrick stormed out the door and slammed it behind him. As Blackwood frowned, staring after his friend, Meg tried to read his emotions. Anger? Concern? Guilt over the part his father, Gilly Black, would play in the brutal execution of the priest? But as ever Blackwood was a mystery to her, his expression unreadable. He strode over and placed the bar across the door.

“A trifle late for that, don’t you think?” Meg attempted to jest to ease the tension Sir Patrick left in his wake.

Blackwood responded with a taut smile. “I suppose we could not have expected to keep the world shut out forever. But it would have been good to have had a little more time.”

“Yes,” Meg agreed softly.

He regarded her intently and for a moment Meg hoped he meant to take her back in his arms, but he brushed past her and began donning the rest of his clothes.

“I am sorry about Graham,” he said. “I warned you he could be a bit … strong in his opinions. Perhaps when he has had time for calm reflection—”

“He will no longer consider me a witch and a strumpet and a threat to your soul?”

Blackwood sighed. “No, I fear that is not going to happen. I think it would be best if you and the countess left his house immediately.”

“I had already reached the same conclusion.”

“You should find somewhere else to dwell, preferably an island, far, far from here.”

Meg struggled to conceal the hurt she felt that Blackwood could part from her so easily. She tried to tell herself his suggestion was made out of concern for her safety.

“I cannot return to Faire Isle yet,” she said.

Blackwood splashed water from the basin over his face. “Why not? You have cured the king. You have accomplished all you came here for.”

“Not all.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot your quest to find your dead mother. Margaret, you cannot truly think—”

“I know not what to think. My mother may not be behind these attacks on the king, but someone is. Some witch who is obviously familiar with the coven of the Silver Rose.”

“Yes …” His gaze rested upon her for a moment and then he sank down upon the edge of the bed to draw on his boots. He had defended her against all of Sir Patrick’s accusations,
but surely there must have been some vestige of doubt planted in Blackwood’s mind.

“Are you never going to ask me?” she prodded.

“About what?”

“Why I know so much about Megaera’s coven, the poison in the silver roses.”

He paused, looking a trifle uneasy, then returned to dragging on his boot. “I just assumed it was because you are the Lady of Faire Isle and thus familiar with all this lore and tales of witches like Megaera.”

He was offering her an excuse. So why could she not just seize upon it? She could almost hear Seraphine warning her.
There is no need to be so honest, even with a lover.

Meg moistened her lips. “Yes, I am familiar with Megaera’s story because …”

Keep your secrets to yourself, Meg.

But when he looked up and her eyes met his, she blurted out, “I am Megaera.”

The boot he had been holding plunked to the floor. “What!” His expression mingled shock with disbelief.

“Or at least I was. I—I had better explain.”

He stared at her. “Yes, I think you had better.”

Meg hugged her arms about herself and in halting sentences told him about the dark days of her childhood when she had been the Silver Rose, the obsession of a deranged mother and the object of worship to a coven of equally mad women.

“They all believed I was destined to become this powerful sorceress who would conquer the world. I—I did possess some unusual gifts,” she admitted. “As young as I was, I was good at deciphering ancient codes and languages. I was one
of the few who could translate the
Book of Shadows,
a compilation of black arts that had long been lost.

“That is where I learned about how to make the silver roses and the syringes, although my mother never used them for any healing purpose. The coven called them witch blades and employed them as another means to deliver the poison.

“I never wanted to place such lethal weapons in the coven’s hands, but Cassandra had means—painful means of enforcing my obedience.” Meg swallowed. “But it is also true that Cassandra was my mother and—and I wanted to please her. I wanted her to love me.”

She hesitated, looking for any small sign of understanding from Blackwood. But he was hunched over, working on his other boot.

Meg paced the room as she continued, “I know not what dark path Maman might have led me down, but I was fortunate to have a father who rescued me. It was he who placed me in the care of Ariane Deauville. She taught me what it truly meant to be a wise woman, a healer, and that is how I came to be the Lady of Faire Isle.”

“So you simply forgot that you were ever this Megaera? No doubt that is why you failed to mention the fact to me.”

Was that anger she heard in his voice? Revulsion? If only he would look at her.

“I do not speak of my past easily, Armagil, because yes, I have tried very hard to forget. But it is never possible.” Tears stung Meg’s eyes.

She drew closer and attempted to place her hand on his shoulder, but he leaped and strode to the hearth, putting the distance of the room between them. Meg cupped her hand and drew it back to her bosom as though that could somehow protect her heart from the ache of his rejection. Her tears
threatened to spill over, but she blinked them back, striving for dignity and control.

His back to her, Armagil said, “You speak of strange gifts. So then Graham was right. You can bewitch men, read their thoughts.”

“No! I have never bewitched anyone. But I can read eyes to a certain degree and—and—”

“And what?” His voice was like the crack of a whip, making her jump.

“And dreams. I have these dreams.” Meg drew in a breath, and in a rush, tried to explain to him about the prophetic dreams that had plagued her childhood, the ones that had tormented her recently involving the death of Maidred Brody.

“I have never had dreams about the past before, so I could not understand what this was trying to tell me, but I finally realized. Sir Patrick is the boy in my nightmares, Maidred’s brother. He vowed vengeance upon the king and now he has come back to get it.”

“What?” Armagil rounded on her.

“Sir Patrick is Robert Brody. He—”

“The devil he is.” Armagil had been pale, but his face suffused red with fury. “This is utter madness and you will speak no more of it, do you hear me? Christ’s blood, woman, if this is all the better you can read minds, your powers are quite faulty.”

Beneath his rage, Meg caught a thread of fear because he knew Graham well. He had to know that Meg was speaking the truth, but Armagil would do anything to protect his friend. Meg well understood. She would have felt the same about Seraphine. She realized she had made a grave error in confiding her suspicions to him and sought to temporize.

“Perhaps I am mistaken. I admit my skill is not what it once was.”

“Can you read my mind?”

“No, I don’t think—”

“Try it.” His words were a challenge, like flinging a gauntlet in her face.

“I—I would rather not.”

But he stormed toward her. Backing her against the wall, he pinioned her with one hand braced on either side of her head.

“Do it, Margaret. Read my eyes.”

Meg reluctantly raised her gaze to his and found his eyes as dark and forbidding as the night she had first met him. She made a halfhearted attempt to probe their depths, but it was like trying to embark upon a black storm-ridden sea that threatened to engulf her.

She averted her face and whispered, “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you will not let me in, not even when you held me in your arms and we were intimate.”

Armagil levered himself away from her. “We coupled our bodies, my dear. There is nothing intimate about that.”

“No, that is not true. I felt something deeper and I am sure that you did—”

“I didn’t, which is why I tried to warn you that we should not lay together.” He strode back to the hearth and vigorously applied the poker, but there were no embers to stir. The fire had turned to ash. “I feared it would be a mistake and I was right.”

“Because now you believe I am a witch?”

“I know not what you are, except for one fact. You are not formed for casual tumbles in a man’s bed. I should have guessed you would imagine it meant more than it did.”

His voice was so harsh, but it softened a little as he added,
“I grant you it was most pleasurable and no matter what Graham said, I would not have you feel ashamed of anything we did.”

“Sir Patrick did not make me feel ashamed. You are the one who has accomplished that.” With the fire out, Meg suddenly realized how cold the chamber was. She wrapped her arms about herself.

Armagil replaced the poker. His hand gripped the edge of the mantel and he half-turned toward her when another knock sounded at the door.

He swore. “Now who the devil?”

When he flung the door open, Tom burst into the room. The boy let out a glad cry to see Armagil recovered. He flung his arms about Armagil’s waist, rushed to hug Meg and back to Armagil again.

The boy’s joy was so boisterous, there was no opportunity for any more words between Meg and Armagil, but that was likely just as well, Meg thought bleakly. There was nothing more to be said.

MEG WAS GLAD TO BE LEAVING SIR PATRICK’S HOUSE. SHE AND
Seraphine did not have many belongings, but at least the packing and preparations for finding a new lodging gave her something to do other than think about Armagil.