Standing at the door to his rooms, hand still raised from knocking, Sophia still wasn’t sure she’d spoken the truth. Behind the door she heard footsteps. Then Cathal jerked it open and fixed her with a surprised glare. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” she said, talking around the heartbeat she could feel in her throat. “I wanted to speak with you in private.”
He still wore his plaid, but his fur-trimmed mantle was off, and his hair was disheveled. Sophia didn’t see a woman in the room beyond, which was perhaps the only thing that saved her from death by embarrassment when Cathal spoke again. “I’m not looking for a wife, and I don’t need a leman just now. You should go back to bed. I won’t tell anyone you were here.”
If hehadpropositioned her, if he’d even cast those emerald eyes down the length of her body before he’d spoken, Sophia would have been less humiliated. “I wasn’t…offering!” she gasped, floundering for a few seconds for the last word. “I—”
“No? I ask your pardon then,” he said, though it was clear he didn’t care whether he received it or not.
Sophia had prepared a speech, a well-reasoned argument that subtly disclosed what she knew and what she was asking. It might have stuck in her mind through fear. Embarrassment and exasperation were another story.
“I heard that your family could turn into dragons,” she said with enough presence of mind to lower her voice. “I have several reliable sources. And if that’s true, I was hoping that you could help me.”
Two
In faith, it was an unexpected turn to the evening.
Cathal didn’t ask what more Sophia had heard, or whom she’d heard it from. The MacAlasdairs didn’t cry what they were from the battlements, but there were men who knew. He knew things about others too—the Welsh lords whose bloodlines were thick with sorcery, the English lady from better times who could start fires with a squint and a sigh—and so it went, in a damn web spreading the length and breadth of the world, for all he could say. Nobody had vowed silence on these matters or any other. King Edward the Longshanks and his advisors would find the knowledge no surprise.
Knowing that, Cathal didn’t roar or snarl, as the lady clearly half expected from her expression, but cocked his head, settled back into his chair, and studied his new guest at more length as he beckoned her into the room.
As mortals went, she was somewhat younger than middle age, older than maidenhood. Hair: dark, pinned back beneath a sadly faded wimple. Eyes: brown, huge in her small, pointed face. Skin: golden, even in winter. Figure: short, amply curved, small-waisted. Not bad. Had she caught him five months ago, when he’d been able to see past the fog of weariness and worry, he’d have taken her up on the offer she hadn’t made—and probably would have been slapped as a result. Dress: black wool gown, amber surcoat, both also the worse for wear but, he thought, of good quality originally. No jewelry. Voice: low, quiet, with a native’s command of French but a slight accent.
His father or Douglas would have drawn much from her appearance. Cathal thought that she was probably decently wellborn and well-off, but any further meaning slipped away, too subtle for him to grasp.
“What kind of aid requires a dragon?” he asked and then, before she could respond, raised a hand. “I warn you now… I kill for my family and my people these days. That’s all.”
Wide eyes went narrow at that, but only for a moment. “Do you…” Sophia started, then sucked a breath in through her teeth and smiled with obvious effort. “I thank you for the warning. I’ve no need for men-at-arms. In truth, it isn’t you I need precisely.”
“The night’s gone sore long already,” he said, although he didn’t entirely want her to leave him to the castle accounts, nor to the thoughts that crept in around the edges of the numbers. “Speak plainly, pray.”
“I want one of your scales,” she said, and although she didn’t seem aware of it, her hands clasped together in front of her. “I would welcome more.”
“Ah.” Matters were becoming slightly clearer. Again he wished for Douglas, or perhaps Agnes, who’d always been the best of them where sorcery was concerned. “Enchantress, are ye?”
Sophia shook her head. “I wouldn’t make any such claim. I study alchemy. I am…” She wet her lips. “By the standards I know, I am very good. There are experiments, properties of metals and stones, that I believe the scales of a dragon would bring out. Some of them would be most helpful to…to people.”
“So I’d think.” Cathal pushed his chair back and stretched his legs out in front of him, folded his arms behind his head, and asked, “Which people? There are a few men in London I’d rather not bemost helpfulto. We’ve had a war recently. You might have heard.”
“I have,” she said, and Cathal watched her eyes darken, so that the fire behind him reflected in their depths. “And believe me, I’m no fonder of the English king than you are.”
If she’d been a man, she’d have spat after the title. Being a woman, she only curled her lip, either truly passionate in her loathing or a decent actress. Cathal considered her speech and her clothing, flipped back pages in his mind, and asked dubiously, “French?” She was young to be bitter about that war. Families handed grudges down, but he didn’t think a secondhand grievance would be so sharp.
It took a moment, a glance over her shoulder, and a long look into his face before Sophia answered. “Jewish. And English, once, before he exiled us to serve his own greed.”
“Oh,” Cathal said.
English news reached even him slowly and patchily. He hadn’t remembered the edict. He wasn’t sure if he’d even been in England for it. There’d been a few years in Aragon about then, a blur of tournaments in the sunshine and wine in the shade. Back then, he’d asked little more of life.
Sighing, he came back from his reverie to find Sophia watching him, barely breathing. For the first time, hethoughtof the edict and of the stories that had reached him from time to time before. She’d bared her neck to the blade by telling him. While he’d reminisced, she’d waited to hear what he would do with her life.
“English stupidity,” he said gruffly and shook his head.
“Common enough to most countries,” she replied. Her voice never rose, and the motion of her shoulders as she shrugged was slight. “We were lucky. My mother had relatives in France. Others were less so. Only a few could take more than what they could carry. And the journey was hard. Not everyone survived. There are more ways to kill than a sword’s edge. So…” Another small shrug. Cathal got the impression that it was all she would permit herself. “You see.”
“Yes.” He even thought she was telling the truth, as far as he could be sure of that. “Do you want vengeance?”
Sophia laughed shortly. “Iwantvengeance, yes. Iwantjustice, and a good harvest, and a fine horse to ride home on, and a bag of gold to spend when I’m there.” She unclasped her hands and touched the corner of her wimple, as if to push back hair that was still covered. “Wantingdoesn’t matter except to children and lords, Sir Cathal, and I’m a great distance from either. What Iseekis protection…and understanding. Knowledge.”
