Elizabeth English - The Borderlands 02 (27 page)

"D
o you want to make your confession?" Jemmy asked
coldly. "I'll send the priest."

The prison chamber was foul and dank. Jemmy grimaced
as he inhaled the noisome stench of the middens just outside the tower wall. Alistair
lay full length on the cold stone bench running the length of one wall. When he
sat up the chains around his ankles clattered. He face was drawn with
exhaustion and his hair hung tangled about his brow.

"Dinna bother," he said indifferently.

"Talk to him or not, he'll be here before
sunset." Jemmy motioned the guard to leave them, adding, "You can go.
I'll be but a short time here."

When the door slammed shut, Jemmy shuddered and glanced
nervously about the small space. Hiding his discomfort, he leaned against the
wall, arms folded across his chest.

"Well?"

"Well, what?" Alistair asked warily.

"What the devil happened earlier?"

"Why ask me? You were there."

"Oh, so you murdered Brodie Maxwell—backstabbed
the man with your own dagger, then stood about waiting to be taken?"

"We all make mistakes."

"You're saying that you did it?" Jemmy
asked, amazed.

"I'll no' deny it."

Jemmy sank down on the bench beside Alistair. "Master
Kendrick says he was dead at least two hours before noon."

Alistair shrugged, his mouth set in a stubborn line.

"So you waited there the whole morning just so
there would be no mistake? Very thoughtful of you."

"Don't do this Jemmy," Alistair said tightly.
"Just let it go."

Jemmy rounded on him furiously. "In case you have
forgotten, tomorrow morning is my father's funeral mass. God knows we weren't
close, but he was my father, and I don't expect it to be pleasant. Once that is
finished, I will sit in judgment on you, the very last of my kin. Forgive me
for
inconveniencing
you, Alistair, but I confess to a certain reluctance
to order my own foster brother hanged from the neck until he is dead. I need to
know the truth and I need to know it now."

He leaned back against the wall, willing himself to
calmness. Anger would serve no purpose here. It would only cloud his thinking,
which was far too muddled as it was. The only thing he knew for certain was
that he had no idea what the hell had happened earlier on Kendrick's Field. And
Alistair showed no signs of enlightening him.

"You were frightened to meet Brodie in fair
combat," Jemmy began, "so you talked him into meeting you alone, two
hours early. I can't wait to hear how you managed that! And then, when the two
of you were chatting about the weather, Brodie obligingly turned his back so
you could slip in your dagger. Is that how it happened?"

"It does not matter how it happened,"
Alistair said. "The deed was done."

"Oh, aye, it was done. But who did it?"

Alistair raised his head and Jemmy thought he had
never seen such misery in a man's eyes. For the first time, his belief in
Alistair's innocence was shaken.

"Jemmy, I ken ye mean well, I ken ye want to help
me, but ye cannot. Just walk away now. Please."

His voice broke on the last word and he looked away.

"Very well, Alistair, I'll go. If you can look me
in the eye and tell me you did this thing, I'll leave right now."

Alistair turned. His eyes were flat, expressionless. "I
did it."

"Why?"

Alistair jumped to his feet with a rattle of heavy
chain and turned his back to Jemmy. "You said you'd leave if I told you,"
he said tightly, "and I have. Now get out." 

Jemmy rose as well. "Listen, Alistair," he
said rapidly, "I know you don't want to trust me, I understand that, but
you must tell me the truth, you have to. How can I help you if you don't?"

"I've said all I mean to say."

Had
he done
it? Jemmy refused to believe it. Why, then, did he not deny it? 

"What can I ever say to Malcolm?" Jemmy
asked, using the sharpest weapon he could summon.

"I dinna care," Alistair said roughly. "Tell
him what ye like. What difference will this make?"

"Aye, you've already broken his faith in you—and
don't think I didn't see what that cost you. Now you'd have him believe you
died a traitor, a coward and a murderer?"

Alistair did not turn, but Jemmy saw the sudden tensing
of his shoulders.

"You are lying," Jemmy said with certainty. "But
why?"

Alistair turned, a desperate light in his eyes. "Jemmy,
if ye ever—I know we have not been friends, but we've known each other all our
lives. For what was between us, I'm asking you to do this last thing for me. Don't
ask any more questions. Just let Kinnon Maxwell have his way tomorrow. Believe
me, this is—'tis what must be."

"You're asking too damn much," Jemmy said. "I
am the one who must condemn you—an innocent man—and I will not do it."

Alistair sank back down on the bench and looked up at
Jemmy, a hard smile touching his lips. "How can ye be sure it wasn't me? 'Tis
no secret I wanted the man dead. Why believe anything I've said? It could have
all been lies, did ye ever think of that? I always wanted Malcolm to follow
your father. Maybe 'twas all a plot to force Calder into the open so I could
take control."

"I considered that. But I don't think it was."

"What reason have ye to trust me? Your wound is
healed, your men assembled—here's your chance to be shed of me. If I were in
your place, I'd take it."

"No, you wouldn't."

Alistair looked up sharply. "Oh, Jemmy, ye canna
know that. There have been times I wished—I wanted—"

"And plenty of times I wanted to wring your neck,
as well," Jemmy admitted, sitting down beside him. "But if you had
truly wished to kill me, you could have done it the day I found you. Or the
night you came to my chamber. Or you could have let Calder do it for you. You
had plenty of chances, but you didn't take them, did you?"

Alistair would not meet his eyes. He stared down at
the filthy straw that covered floor, his face studiously blank.

"Do you really believe I will condemn you to a
death you don't deserve?" Jemmy asked. "When all the while there's
someone standing back, watching, waiting for me to hang you for his
crime?"

Alistair turned to him. "Jemmy, don't—"

Jemmy stared at him in sudden understanding. "Or,"
he said slowly, "for
her
crime."

"No," Alistair said vehemently. "Ye
have it wrong—"

"Do I? Who else would you protect?"

Alistair stood and paced the length of the chamber. "Deirdre
had every reason to kill him.  You don't know—ye canna begin to know all he did
to her."

"Why are you so certain it was she?"

"The dagger." Alistair sighed. "I lent
it to her and she never returned it."

Jemmy ran a hand across his face, all the events of
the past days descending like a leaden weight upon his shoulders. Why did this
have to happen now? It was too much, too soon after his father's death. But he
had no choice but to see it through.

Frowning, he tried again to imagine what had taken
place at Kendrick's Field that morning.

"She is very slight," he said. "I don't
see how...and how did she convince him to meet her there?"

Alistair shook his head. "I canna say. But she
must have done it."

"But when did she find time to send a
message?" Jemmy insisted "And whyever would Brodie have agreed?"

"If she said she meant to go back to him, he
would have met her."

"All right, that is possible," Jemmy conceded.
"So she got him to the field, then struck him down and left your dagger in
his back?"

"She panicked," Alistair said. "'Twould
be natural enough."

"And now? You think she will keep silent and let
you hang?"

Alistair made no answer.

"Then why did she not let Kinnon string you up
right then and there?"

"'Twould have been better if she had," Alistair
said bitterly. "Now we must go through some sort of trial. When it comes
to the point, show no mercy, Jemmy. Just do what ye must...and then think of it
no more."

"Thank you. 'Tis all quite clear now. How
fortunate I still have you to tell me what to do! How will I ever manage when
you are gone?"

Alistair did not answer. As though the last of his
strength was gone, he sat down and buried his face in his hands. Jemmy took a
deep breath, then released it slowly.

"Alistair?"

"Aye?"

"You are a fool. Ah, there look, he comes to
life! But 'tis the simple truth."

"Think what ye like," Alistair said tightly.

"Do you seriously believe Deirdre murdered Brodie
and is sitting silent while you take the blame for it? You wrong her. Do you
really think she had no honor?"

Alistair looked away.

"Deirdre would
never
have done such a
thing," Jemmy said with conviction. "Oh, I can well believe she would
kill Brodie—how can I not when she said so herself? And that's the point, isn't
it? She
told
us, Alistair, she said straight out what she meant to do.
And I believe that if she was desperate enough, if he drove her to it, she
would have done it. But not like this. To stab him in the back, then say
nothing when an innocent man was taken? When the man is the one she
loves?"

Alistair remained silent, his face averted.

"Do you not know that? How can you not, when 'tis
plain to every one of us? How
could
you doubt her?"

Jemmy stood, studiously turning his back on his
kinsman.

"Christ's wounds," he grumbled, pacing
across the floor to peer through the tiny barred window. "I'll have this
place torn down, I swear it. Well?" he added after a moment. "Have
you naught to say?"

"If Deirdre did not do it, it means...it must
mean..."

"That we have to find the person who did, and we
have not got much time," Jemmy said, resuming his seat. "Now, you say
you gave her the dagger, but I never saw her carry it. What if she left it in
her chamber? Anyone could have picked it up. What if Calder—"

Alistair shook his head. "Calder could not get in
there. Not with Finn about."

"Then someone she invited inside," Jemmy
suggested. "Fitzgerald?"

"Fitzgerald," Alistair said, his hand
tightening into a fist.

"I think Lady Maxwell cares for you far more than
you realize," Jemmy said gently. "I will wager Fitzgerald thinks so,
too. This would have been the perfect chance for him to be rid of both you and
Brodie."

"Aye, it could have happened that way."

"Let's get the harper in here and ask him a few
questions."

"Nay." Alistair stood, frowning at the
chains around his ankles. "Stay out of it. Remember, ye are meant to be
champing at the bit to hang me. Why would ye start questioning others now?"

"Then what?"

"Let me talk to him alone. I can get the truth
from him. Two hours, no more, and I'll be back. Will ye trust me for
that?"

"Yes," Jemmy said. "I will and I do. Come
on, then. We'll go to the chapel—we can say you're paying your final respects
to the laird. I'll wait for you there."

As he went to the door to call the guard, Alistair put
a hand on his wrist.

"Thank you, Jemmy."

"No need for thanks," Jemmy said gruffly. "'Tis
little enough to ask. You're the only family I have left to me now that
Father... I need you with me. Alive. So see you get the truth from that
Irishman."

"Oh, I'll have the truth of this," Alistair
promised grimly. "One way or another, I'll find young Fitzgerald and make
him talk."

"R
eady to talk, Fitzgerald?"

Ronan kicked backward with all his strength and
twisted in his assailant's grip. But the arms around him were strong and the
blade against his throat was very keen.

"Why else are ye here at this hour?" Calder
added, driving his knee more firmly into the small of Ronan's back.
"Running to Jemmy to spill your guts, were ye?  Well, we canna have that. D'ye
think I'll let a wee fool like you undo all I've done?"

"You never said—" Ronan gasped. "Never—not
murder—"

Calder laughed. "Nay, I don't suppose I did. But
what's done is done."

The courtyard was nearly dark, but Alistair, crouched
in the shadow of a wheelbarrow, had no trouble making out the two men. Careful
not to make a sound, he drew his sword. He had followed Ronan this far
expecting to hear something very different. But now he understood. It had not
been Deirdre, nor had it been the young harper—now so dangerously close to
death—who had killed Brodie. Jemmy had been right. It was Calder all along.

He stepped out from the shadows and raised his sword. To
his right, he heard the scrape of a booted foot on cobbles and realized a man
stood concealed in the corner of the wall. Alistair spun to face him, but he
was too late. Before he could speak a word, the world exploded into pain and
darkness.

"H
ist!  Calder, 'tis Alistair—"

"What?"

Calder's head whipped toward the figure lying face
down on the cobbles. The moment his attention was diverted, Ronan drove an
elbow into his belly. When Calder's grasp loosened, the Irishman twisted,
struck out once more, and disappeared into the darkness.

"After him!" Calder grunted, wheezing. "Find
him, slit his throat—damn ye, man, what d'ye mean by crying out that way?"

"I'm sorry—'twas the shock—"

"Go on!" Calder ordered curtly. "He
must be silenced."

When Calder was alone, he bent and laid a hand against
Alistair's neck. "Still alive," he muttered. "Worse luck." 

He drew his dagger, then stiffened at the sound of
footsteps and glanced nervously about the darkened courtyard. With sudden
decision he righted the wheelbarrow, tossed Alistair within, and with an armful
of hay scraped hastily from the ground, he covered the prone figure. Just as
the guard rounded the corner, Calder seized the handles and started for the
stable.

R
onan flattened himself against the wall and drew a
gasping breath, casting a longing glance toward the lighted window of the tower
room. There was no time to reach Deirdre now. He had to find Jemmy Kirallen and
tell him what should have been told this afternoon. If only he had spoken up at
once! But he had not, and now there was no time to berate himself for his own
credulous folly. If he lived, there would be plenty of time to confess his part
in this afternoon's tragedy. And if not... well, then there was no point in
worrying about it.

Keeping to the shadows, he made his way around the
walled courtyard to the doorway. There he stopped, listening hard, hearing
nothing but the pounding of his heart.

At last the door opened and a man walked outside, yawning
and looking at the stars. Ronan darted inside the doorway and glanced to either
side. The hall was just before him and a corridor stretched to his right. As he
hesitated, the guard walked back inside and Ronan dove for the nearest patch of
shadow.

Sweat ran into his eyes and he blinked hard, cursing
steadily beneath his breath as the guardsman took up his station just inside
the door. His eyes trained on the guardsman, Ronan drew a coin from the purse
at his belt and threw it past him, into the doorway of the hall. It landed with
a muffled clink and the guard turned in that direction. The moment the man
moved, Ronan ran headlong up the stairs toward Jemmy's chamber.

"S
ir Calder!" the stable lad said, staring at the
wheelbarrow. "What are ye doing here?  Here, let me take that for
ye."

"No!"  Calder stretched his lips into a
smile as he loosened the dagger in his belt. "I have it, lad. No need to
trouble yourself."

"But—"

"Good even, sir," a deeper voice said, and
Calder eased the dagger back into the scabbard. "Is there something
amiss?"

"Nay, nay. All is well. Save for this!" He
nodded toward the wheelbarrow and felt the sweat spring on his brow as he saw
one booted foot protruding from the straw. "I tripped on it earlier,
nearly broke my neck!  I wouldn't want anyone else to be hurt."

"Ah." Sym, the head stable lad, nodded. "That
was a kind thought. That dappled mare is foaling," he added to the younger
man. "Could ye check on her?"

As the lad walked off, Calder leaned the wheelbarrow
in a shadowed corner.

"Good night, then, sir," Sym said, holding
his lantern high to light Calder's way to the door.

"Aye. Good night."

Calder stopped outside the door and leaned against it.
He doubted Alistair would be waking anytime soon, but even if he did, what of
it? Calder would deny everything and nothing could be proved against him. The
important thing, the only thing that mattered now, was to silence that damned
harper.

But first he had to find him.

R
onan crouched behind an arras in a small alcove,
listening as two men calmly discussed his murder.

"...that Irishman," one was saying, a touch
of scorn in his voice. "Once across the neck, that's what Calder said, and
hide the body well."

Ronan laid a hand across his throat and grimaced as
the second man answered in a low voice.

"Who knows?" the first man said with a laugh.
"Perhaps Calder doesna care for his harping. Look sharp now," he
added in a lower voice. "'Tis Sir Donal."

Peering cautiously around the edge of the arras, Ronan
saw the red-haired knight walk down the passageway. He recognized him at once
as one of Jemmy Kirallen's personal guard. Someone he could trust. But how to
get word to him?

"All's quiet here, sir," one of Ronan's
would-be assassins said respectfully.

"Good work."

Ronan thought rapidly. Two on two. It would be an even
fight. If only he could count on the red-haired knight to take his side! He
would have one chance to speak, no more than that, and he had better find the
right words.

But even as his muscles tensed for the leap, Sir Donal
spoke again. "Have ye seen aught of young Fitzgerald, that Irish
harper?" he added casually, his gaze moving over the passageway.

"Nay," the men answered just as casually. "No
one has been by tonight."

"Keep an eye out for him," Donal said. "If
he happens by, keep him here and send word to me."

The two guards turned to watch him go. Ronan did not
hesitate. The moment their backs were turned he slipped from behind the arras. But
though he was swift and silent, they heard him. Two on one, it was then, on a mad
flight down the stairway.

Ronan was fast, but they caught him just the same.

T
he chapel smelled of the roses piled high around the
bier where three dozen banked candles shed their light over Gawyn Kirallen's
lifeless form. He looked younger in death, Alyson thought, the harsh lines of
pain and care smoothed from his waxen skin. But his expression was still very
stern.

She sighed and touched the shoulder of the man
kneeling before the coffin, dark head resting on his arms.

"Jemmy," she whispered. "'Tis late. Come
to bed now."

Jemmy raised his head and stared at her with dark and
shadowed eyes. "Alyson, love, what are you doing up?"

"Looking for you," she answered simply.

"Go to sleep. I'll bide here a while."

She lowered herself to kneel beside him. "Then I
will stay with you. You shouldn't be alone here. Oh, Jemmy, I am sorry."

"Don't," he said, twisting away as she
stroked his hair. "Don't be sorry for me. I don't deserve your sympathy. Christ's
blood, I am such a fool," he added in a harsh whisper.

"What is it?" Alyson asked. "What is
wrong?"

"'Tis Alistair," he answered on a groan. "He
is gone."

"Gone?  Nay, Jemmy, he's in confinement—until the
trial—"

"There will be no trial."  He dropped his
head back on his arms. "I let him go. Indeed, I almost pushed him out the
door!  And now he has...just...disappeared and young Fitzgerald with him. I've
had men searching the grounds all night. There is no trace of either of
them."

"But how could you have let him go?" Alyson
cried, then cast a guilty glance at the laird's still form. "Why?"
she said in a whisper.

"Oh, sweeting, 'tis a long, long story..."

Alyson sat back on her heels and reached for his hand.
"Then you had best come to bed and tell me all about it," she said,
forcing herself to smile reassuringly as he took her hand. "We'll sort it
out together."

A
listair stopped at the foot of the tower stairs and
leaned weakly against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut. A mistake, he realized
as he staggered, nearly falling. But when he opened his eyes he still saw two
dim stairways stretching into darkness. Keeping one hand on the wall, he
started up, concentrating on placing one foot before the other.

He knew dimly that he should find Jemmy, tell him
something, but he had no idea what it was. The only coherent thought in his
mind was that he needed Deirdre. Everything would be all right if he could only
find her. What exactly was wrong, he could not remember, and he could not spare
the energy to try. Whatever it was, Deirdre would sort it out. He could trust her,
he knew that now, though he had no idea why he'd ever doubted her. Memory began
and ended in this stairway. He had always been here, putting one foot in front
of the other, forcing himself upward with each step.

Through the pounding of his head he heard a distant
clanking sound, but it took some time before he understood it was his sword
bumping up each step as it trailed from his hand. He wondered hazily why he had
drawn his sword, but there was no answer to that question. He could only
imagine he'd had a reason at the time.

Up above a dog was barking. Finn, he thought, so
relieved that he had to stop and lean heavily against the wall. He had begun to
wonder if he was even in the right part of the manor, but now he knew he was. Finn
was here. That meant Deirdre was here, as well. She would open the door any
moment now, and he could fall into her arms and rest.

"Quiet, Finn!"

Deirdre's voice was the sweetest sound he'd ever heard.
He forced himself to take another step, and from a great distance he heard his
sword clatter down the steps behind him. But that was all right. He didn't need
it now. Three more steps would bring him to the landing, and from there it was
but two paces to the door.

He reached the top of the steps and stood swaying. "Deirdre!"
he shouted with all his strength, but the word came out as a hoarse whisper,
inaudible over the clamor Finn was making now. Alistair staggered forward and
opened his mouth to try again, but before he could utter a word a hand was
clamped hard across his mouth and he was pulled half off his feet.

"Finn, be quiet!" Deirdre called. "What
is
all this about?"

The door opened a little way, but Alistair was pinned
against the wall, his shouts muffled by the hand across his mouth. Through a
small crack he could see Deirdre standing just inside, a candle in her hand. Her
hair was tangled around her tearstained face and she barely glanced down the
stairway before turning back.

"What is wrong with you?" she scolded the
dog. "There's nothing out there. Lie
down
, Finn. Quiet!"

Alistair twisted frantically, trying to call out, to
kick the man behind him, and then suddenly he stilled. Deirdre could not help
him now. If she was to even guess that he was here, it would bring her into
danger. Bright spots danced before his eyes and he fought against them, holding
onto consciousness with every ounce of his failing strength.

The door closed and she was gone. Finn flung his body
against the wood, his paws scrabbling vainly as he howled.

"Ye led us quite a chase, but now we have
ye," a voice said in Alistair's ear, and an agonizing pain pierced his
skull.

Calder, Alistair thought, and for a single fleeting
moment, before the darkness closed around him, he remembered everything.

"F
inn, quiet!" Deirdre ordered, her voice rough with
tears. "Lie down and be still."

The dog whined and pawed frantically at the door, then
threw back his head and howled. But there was no one out there, Deirdre had
seen that for herself. What was the matter with the dog?