Forbidden Warrior (Midsummer Knights)

Chapter 1

England

May 1193

* * *

Máel tightened his hand around the hilt of his claymore and waited in the dark alley beside the Goat and Hound tavern, as arranged. But he wasn’t happy about it.

Firstly, all manner of mischief was brewing in England these days, and while he had no aversion to England sliding violently off the map of the known world into the raging sea, he did not wish to be around the drunken souls who washed up on its shores when it happened. Usually at places such as the Goat and Hound.

Or drunk people who washed up on any shore. Anywhere.

Or people. Ever.

Secondly, it looked like rain.

He had to admit, though, that the Goat and Hound was one of the best places to conduct clandestine meetings and deliver covert messages. Even if the message was being delivered to a peer of the realm.

Especially if it was.

He touched the hilt of his sword again. The touch was spontaneous and unintentional, the sword his private talisman. For Moralltach was more than a sword; it was a solemn oath, laid on him from his father’s dying lips.

Ruin the English.

He’d been doing his part these last fifteen years.

This mission was simply more of the same.

Treason rarely went well for those involved.

A richly attired man stepped out of the shadows. His employer, Lord Geoffrey d’Argent, Baron Ware. Two very large soldiers appeared on either side of him.

Expected. And ominous.

“You have the message?” d’Argent asked.

Máel considered the soldiers a moment, then handed it over.

“Excellent,” d’Argent said, reaching for it.

He broke the Ross clan seal and perused the letter by the light of a torch held aloft by one of his guards.

A moment later he smiled and snapped his hand up, lifting the missive over his shoulder, holding it to the torch. A corner blackened and then the whole thing burst into flames.

Máel supposed that meant he did not want evidence.

Or perhaps witnesses?

A roll of thunder broke overhead.

Máel curled his hand around the hilt of Moralltach but did not draw it. It would be far better for this man to achie

ve his treacherous purposes: overthrow King Richard and install his brother, craven Prince John.

England would hardly be able to withstand the broken truth of such a man.

Ruin the English.

In the sudden flare of burning parchment, the baron smiled. Raindrops began to fall.

“Well done, Irishman. Did you have any problems?”

“Scotland is cold,” Máel replied curtly. “And wet. And there are a great many mountains.”

D’Argent clucked his tongue. “I am sorry for your travails.”

“You’ll pay.”