The Ivory Star

Chapter 14

Angus crouched at the foot the garden wall, surveying the courtyard for anyone who might have seen him. At the empty courtyard, the grin plastering his face grew wider still. That girl knew her way! He shook his head in near-disbelief at the passion of the recent memory, unable to wipe the smile completely off his face, but equally unable to quell the pang of guilt roiling in his belly. "Angus, you dog, you," he muttered.

He started across the courtyard, allowing himself to bask in the memory. He stopped in mid-stride. A terrible feeling of foreboding washed over him. A feeling that he had somehow missed something of vital importance, and the consequences would be dire. He searched his memory, a sick feeling spawning in the pit of his gut. Had her behavior seemed a bit peculiar afterwards? Perhaps he had unconsciously disregarded it as a young woman's foolishness.

She had seemed excited, almost frantic, although she hid it quite well. She had wanted to get back into the house quickly, hurrying Angus out of the garden. She said that she had to return to her chamber before she was discovered missing. Angus had thought that possibility remote at this late hour, but he dismissed it. Perhaps he had been wrong to do so. But perhaps not, maybe he was overreacting. He tried to put these things out of his mind, and remember only the pleasure, at least for a while, but even that could not completely salve the nagging guilt.

He strolled across the yard toward the gate.

A voice cracked the overcast darkness, breaking his reverie. "Hold! Who goes there?"

"Worry not, fellow," Angus said, continuing forward. "It is I."

The voice had come from the top of the wall. The darkness revealed no one, but the sentry up there doubtless saw him very clearly against the light-colored courtyard cobbles. "Halt, I say!" the watchman commanded.

"Halt!" the sentry ordered. "Who goes there at this hour?"

Angus froze. Footfalls descended the interior steps of the gatehouse. Two black shapes emerged from the dense night, crossbows leveled.

He chastised himself. Think fast, dolt!

At that instant, the door of the house flung open, filled with the towering form of Lord Valerion, lantern upraised. He emerged from the doorway, clad only in night trousers, and stormed down the steps into the courtyard. His bare feet slapped the cold cobbles, and the autumn chill seemed to go unheeded on his all but naked frame. Tarl followed close behind. The two men marched across the yard, Tarl carrying a leg-sized oaken bludgeon in his yellow-furred fist.

"Angus MacTavish!" Valerion exclaimed. "What do you here at this tender hour?"

Angus stammered, struggling to formulate an appropriate lie.

Tarl cut in, brandishing his fearsome club, "Let me beat it out of him, milord." His eyes were dull and red-rimmed from the massive amount of wine that had passed his gullet.

Restraining him with his free arm, Valerion ordered, "Hold your overanxious arm, my friend. Don't you recognize my newest Red Dragon?"

"Aye," Tarl growled, "I do. I should dearly love to pound him good nonetheless."

Valerion cracked a smile. "Why is that?"

"I have my suspicions, my lord."

"And what suspicions are those, my good fellow?"

"I had best not say, milord. But rest assured that if I have anything more than a suspicion, I will beat the truth out of him." His eyes glinted with malicious glee as he fingered his massive club.