King's Warrior (Renegade Lords)

She looked up slowly. “He died.”

“Was murdered.”

“In the gardens,” her voice was a whisper now.

“Aye. Two days before he was supposed to be crowned king of Jerusalem.”

Her face was pale, her eyes pained. “That would be an awful thing for a king to have arranged.”

He gave a dark laugh. “Awful indeed. The cold-blooded murder of a fellow crusader prince, a nobleman elected by the other crusader kings to be King of Jerusalem. Regicide. Not even Richard could withstand the taint.”

“But of course, it is not true.”

His eyes d

rifted to the blade she still held in the air between them. He said nothing.

The silence stretched out, and her hand began trembling. She looked at the dagger, then her gaze tracked back down to his, filled with the dreadful question.

“How do you know all this, Tadhg?”

“I was there.” He closed his eyes. “I contracted for the kill.”

“Oh Tadhg.” Her whisper barely reached him.

“Myself and Sherwood.”

“Oh, Tadhg.”

He could hardly hear her as the memories rushed for him, swept him back in time, as if he was there again, out on the lonely desert, standing outside the tent of the Assassins.

Chapter Thirty-One

THE VOICES FROM INSIDE the tent were low and intent. Standing just outside the richly, well-appointed structure, Tadhg looked over at the Muslim guards who stood opposite him, staring. He stared back.

A low sun burned near the horizon and he was weary. He and Sherwood had ridden hours to get to this meeting, which had been going on for almost an hour now. They would need to ride hours again after, to return to the crusader fortress, and the king of England.

Tadhg stared at the cold-eyed fida’i warrior across from him. The man didn’t look any happier now than he’d been when they’d ridden up. At least if all went well in the meeting, Tadhg and Sherwood would not have to worry about being stabbed in the back as they rode away across the wind-swept, moonlit lands.

Of course, if all didn’t go well….

The voices in the tent rose slightly in a tone of finale. A moment later, the flap lifted, tassels swinging, and Geoffrey d’Argent, Lord Sherwood, poked his head out. He saw Tadhg and gestured.

“We want the money,” he said quietly.

Tadhg ducked inside, stepping out of the heat and dry wind, carrying the small chest in his arms. Seated in the opulent tent were four men. One, clearly the leader, was garbed in colorful flowing robes and sat in the center, armed, watchful, and serene. The other three stood behind him, armed, watchful, and menacing. No one was smiling.

Quite the meeting.

Sherwood and he exchanged a silent look. After making the appropriate rituals of greeting, and declining a cup of a hot drink, Tadhg picked his own place to stand, up against the tent wall, arms crossed, legs spread.

Four could play at this game.

In any event, this was entirely the reason Tadhg was here. He’d been picked for his skill with sword and blade; it was what he’d always been picked for. It was the reason he was here in the Holy Land, a member of Richard the Lionheart’s personal guard. Sword and blade were what Tadhg did.

Filleann an feall ar an bhfeallaire.

Tadhg shivered a little as the proverb his mother used to say returned to him, again, unbidden: Treachery returns to the betrayer. He shoved away his unease. ’Twas naught but an old saying. Bad deeds did not always revisit themselves on the doer.