Twilight Magic (3 page)

“Make way for the bishop! Stand aside! Make way!” The bishop had to be Henry, and Darian’s conjecture was confirmed when he heard the man’s voice.

“Let them in! Let them all into the royal chamber to witness the king’s justice!”

“What the devil is Henry about?” William muttered. Darian didn’t know, but whatever the bishop was up to couldn’t be good.

Henry, the powerful bishop of Winchester, brother of the king, garbed in the full regalia of his office, burst into the chamber. He hustled toward King Stephen followed by four soldiers bearing a litter.

The room filled up with people. The air grew close and overly warm.

Bishop Henry pointed to a spot on the floor in front of the king. The men lowered the litter.

Darian heard the buzz of voices, was well aware of William uncomfortably shifting his stance, but nothing could tear his gaze from the face of the obviously dead man on the litter.

The face of Edward de Salis, the vile, evil man who yester noon the king had given Darian the order to assassinate. Someone had gotten to de Salis first.

“Darian of Bruges!” Bishop Henry shouted. “I accuse you of murder!”

Chapter Two

E
mma marveled at her good luck. She’d been prepared for an encounter with an overbearing clerk when fate intervened, easing her entry to the royal chamber. Of course, she still might have to wrestle with the clerk, but she was closer to her goal and she would allow no one to stop her now.

At the moment she couldn’t see what transpired at the front of the chamber. She’d caught a glimpse of Bishop Henry when he’d passed through the antechamber with the litter bearers in his wake. Who the poor man on the litter might be, or how he’d died, she didn’t know.

However, the bishop had called out the name of the man he accused of murder. Darian of Bruges.

An unusual name—Darian.

“I did not murder Edward de Salis.”

His deep, rich voice rang strong and clear through the chamber, and Emma craned her neck to locate the owner of the powerful voice. But the men she’d used as a shield to get into the chamber were too broad and tall to see around.

No matter. The dead man and his murderer had nothing to do with her. Giddy with anticipation, Emma inched her way forward, certain that once this distraction was over, she could better judge how to approach the king.

“Is this not the man you described to us yesterday as vile and evil?” the bishop asked.

“He is,” Darian answered.

“This morn, he was found dead in an alley on Watling Street in Southwark, his throat slit.”

“How fortunate for us all.” Darian’s droll comment drew snickers from a couple of people in the crowd.

She could see the bishop now. In his flowing robes, he stood near where King Stephen sat in an elegantly carved, armed chair and listened intently. She also saw the Flemish mercenary captain, Earl William, a favorite of Queen Matilda’s who often visited the queen’s solar, step over to the litter to stare down at the dead man.

“You are known for your skill with a dagger, Darian. Have you your dagger with you?” the bishop asked.

“Weapons are not allowed in this chamber. I would not be so witless as to bring one into the royal presence. My dagger is with my belongings in the barracks and I can produce it, if you wish.”

Emma squeezed into a small space between two people, inching forward once again.

“You did not sleep in the barracks last night,” the bishop stated, his ire becoming palpable. “There are those among your own fellows who will testify they saw naught of you until the dawn. Can you produce trustworthy witnesses to attest to your whereabouts?”

For several heartbeats silence reigned.

“Nay.”

After a slight shift Emma saw the accused. While murmurs floated around her, she paid them no heed, aware only of the handsome, sandy-haired, hazel-eyed man garbed all in black.

She almost gasped aloud, her pulse quickening as she recognized Darian of Bruges. Broad of shoulder, narrow in the hip, long and lithe, he stood with his feet spread apart slightly, his arms crossed over his chest, a stance sublimely suited to him.

Amazement mingled with a heady sense of anticipation that weakened her knees. After years of waiting, of comparing all other men to him, the lover of her vision had finally appeared.

Emma closed her eyes and envisioned Darian as clearly as the first time she’d
seen
him. She knew what his upper body looked like without clothing—all taut, sculpted muscle. His lower arms were a sun-touched bronze. Beneath his lowest left rib, he bore a scar. His cheeks dimpled when he smiled, and his smile for her, when holding out his hand in seductive, tantalizing invitation, was glorious.

She hadn’t touched his hand in the vision, but had always imagined his touch warm, his grasp firm and sure, his fingers clever and knowledgeable.

True, she’d expected her lover to be Norman or Welsh, akin to her own mixed heritage, but his name implied— Emma’s eyes snapped open as reality returned with a hard slap to her senses. Bruges was a town in Flanders, so Darian must be a Flemish mercenary! And he stood accused of murder!

Sweet God in his heaven!

Oh, cruel fate! A mercenary? A murderer?

Surely she would never bed a murderer!

She frantically studied Darian’s expression, searching for signs of guilt or innocence. His stoicism gave naught away.

“Sire, consider,” the bishop pleaded. “Darian of Bruges is known to hold Edward de Salis in contempt. He cannot produce witnesses to attest to his whereabouts last night. Nor, I believe, can he produce his dagger.” The bishop held out his hand to one of the litter bearers. The flash of silver passed between the men’s hands. “This dagger was found beside de Salis’s body. I believe it belongs to Darian of Bruges.”

Darian’s eyebrow arched, but he made no move toward the bishop. Neither did he confirm or deny ownership.

Two heartbeats of silence later, Earl William held out his hand. “Give me that.”

With a nasty smile the bishop handed the weapon over. “ ’Twould seem you have less control over your mercenaries than you would have us believe, William.”

William tapped the blade against his palm, his eyes narrowing with anger. “I have never known Darian to be less than honest, and I believe his denial of any knowledge of this deed. Whoever killed de Salis has done a fine job of making it appear Darian is guilty.”

Bishop Henry waved a dismissive hand. “Spoken as a commander in defense of one of his favorites. I might allow the possibility of his honesty if Darian could produce one trustworthy witness to his whereabouts. But he either cannot, or will not.”

All looked again to Darian.

Emma edged her way forward, silently begging him to relent. To prove his innocence by telling the bishop where he’d been last night and with whom.

He simply turned to William and, in that same unwavering tone, stated, “I know not who killed de Salis, or why my dagger is not with my other belongings, but I swear to you, he did not die by my hand.”

The denial rang true. Darian hadn’t killed de Salis, no matter the bishop’s accusations. No matter his inability to provide proof. As Earl William said, someone had betrayed Darian. Surely the king would hear and see the truth.

King Stephen rose from his chair and held out his hand to William, who handed over Darian’s dagger. The king flipped it over in his palm, staring down at the weapon— frowning mightily.

A bad omen, that frown.

Dread and anger over her visions flooded through her, and she was once more unprepared and uncertain over
what
she was supposed to do.

Did the visions reveal future events that couldn’t be changed, or were they glimpses of possibilities that could be altered?

The confusion had plagued her from an early age. Bewildered and sometimes frightened by seeing odd things in pools of water, she’d told her mother of what she saw. Mother had looked on her with pity, told her to keep the sightings to herself. So Emma had obeyed, told no one, not even her mother.

The pang of grief was sharp, the guilt nearly overwhelming over the one vision she wished she’d possessed the wisdom and courage to reveal. Perhaps if she’d told someone that her mother would die giving birth to Nicole, either her mother or the midwives could have done something to prevent the death.

Or perhaps not. She could well have been accused of causing her mother’s death by foretelling it.

And if she hadn’t turned coward and foreswore the visions, might she have been able to warn her father of the danger at Wallingford, warned him to be cautious? And despite the warning might he and her brother have died anyway?

Damn. She never invited the visions, didn’t want to know what might happen in
anyone’s
future because she never knew what was best, as now.

Would Darian come away unscathed if she held her peace, or must she interfere to save his life so her vision of him would come true?

The king now stared at Darian, and Emma wrestled with the dilemma of what to do if Darian refused to save himself from a hangman’s noose.

Darian watched the dagger flip in the king’s hands, the lion’s head on the hilt proclaiming the shining weapon as his own. Someone must have stolen it after he’d returned to the barracks early this morning, stuffed the weapon into his pack, then left to break fast with William before attending this farce of a meeting. The thief would have had ample time, nigh on two hours, to commit the murder and leave Darian’s dagger with de Salis’s body.

Was that someone a mercenary? He had to believe it probable, though ’twas sickening to realize there might be a traitor in their midst. Darian didn’t know who, and hoped he would live long enough to expose the bastard.

But why had Bishop Henry made so public a spectacle over what could have been handled quietly, secretly?

Naturally, any murder in Southwark would come to Bishop Henry’s attention. He resided in Winchester Palace in Southwark, and collected rents and fees from the taverns, brothels, and sundry businesses that provided lewd, exciting amusement on the south bank of the Thames.

Henry hadn’t approved of the king allowing Darian to dispose of de Salis, and the king couldn’t have forgotten that yester noon he’d given permission for an assassination.

Darian knew King Stephen couldn’t admit publicly he’d condoned an assassination. If asked, all who’d been present yesterday would deny any involvement in the decision to assassinate de Salis. If Darian were caught, not one of them would come to his aid.

Having accepted the mission, Darian knew he took all the risks, bore all the responsibility, would receive no reward or acclaim beyond his pay.

The king also must realize Darian wouldn’t have killed de Salis in so public a place as Watling Street, but in the countryside, quietly and efficiently, making it seem the man had simply disappeared.

The whole thing stank of a conspiracy to frame him. The king finally stopped flipping the dagger. “You admit this is your dagger?”

“As I said, I have no notion of how it came to be found near the body. The last I saw it was early this morn when I placed it with my other belongings.”

“And you cannot produce witnesses to attest to your whereabouts last night?”

Not a
trustworthy
witness. The two men he’d met with would never pass the bishop’s test. Honor demanded Darian not utter their names, much less ask them to testify on his behalf.

“I fear not, Sire.”

“You give us nothing on which to trust your protest of innocence, Darian.”

King Stephen’s tone and expression said he wanted to dismiss Bishop Henry’s charge, or be given an explanation for the dagger’s presence in Southwark, or for someone to come forward on Darian’s behalf.

Darian could give him nothing.

“All I offer you is my word of honor—”

Henry huffed. “The word of a Flemish mercenary? You ask too much!”

From the back of the chamber came a shout. “Justice!” Another voice picked it up, and then another, until soon the word reverberated off the walls in a damning chant, the injustice of their damnation churning his stomach.

Darian considered making an attempt to escape, but even if he could push through the crowd to the door, he considered it cowardly and akin to an admission of guilt.

So he stood his ground, feeling the noose tightening around his neck, choking off his breath.

The king waved the crowd to silence, and the deepening quiet was almost as nerve-wrenching as the chant.

“You give us no recourse, Darian. If this is your dagger, and if, as my brother testifies, it was found beside de Salis’s body, then we must condemn you as guilty. Guards, remove the prisoner and inform the hangman.”

Sweat broke out on his brow. Bile rose in his throat. Guards appeared on either side of him and clamped onto his arms. Thinking reasonably proved taxing.

Certainly Earl William would protest and find a way to stop the hanging. His life surely wasn’t meant to end in so unjust and ignoble a fashion.

Then Darian heard footsteps, light but steady across the floor, and he couldn’t help but turn toward the sound.

Lady Emma de Leon stood at the forward edge of the crowd, her hands clutching her topaz bliaut. She dipped into a deep curtsy.

“Sire, if I may be allowed to approach?”

The king sighed and gave her a condescending smile. “Lady Emma, now is not the time to speak of your petition. I am aware of your wish to aid your sister and will—”

“You misunderstand my boldness, Sire. What I have to say has naught to do with Nicole, though if you would grant me a moment later to consider my request, I would be forever most grateful.” She licked her lips, as if they’d gone dry. “What I must tell you . . . that is, confess . . . well, I believe you do not wish to hang an innocent man.”

On the edge of his awareness, Darian saw the king’s eyebrow arch upward. Bishop Henry left his post by the litter to stand at King Stephen’s side. Even as his instincts distrusted her uninvited and suspect intrusion, Darian noticed the lady’s eyes were the deep, soft brown of a doe, and just as wide open and luminous.