At The King's Command by Susan Wiggs

garnet. A pretty enough stone but hardly rare. Now he wondered.
    He held the brooch high in the stream of moonlight. He saw blood and fire, the same elements that had haunted her dream.
    If it was a real ruby, then she was either an artful thief or a desperate woman who had lost her family and fortune to tragedy.
    The long part of the cross curved slightly at the end, and on the back Stephen felt a tiny hinged catch.
    Freeing it, he felt two parts of the brooch separate. To his astonishment, he held a tiny razor-sharp dagger.
    Intrigued, Stephen studied the small blade, then sheathed it again. Working his thumb over the polished surface of the brooch, he felt a roughness on the gold. He squinted, angling it toward the light. Strange symbols were etched there—odd curls and angles, reminiscent of the ancient runes carved in the rock dolmens hidden in the secret dales of the Welsh marches.
    A shiver passed over him. Holding the brooch gave him the strangest sensation. An uneasy feeling of portent.
    He put the brooch down. Juliana stirred, settling closer.
    Don’t feel, he told himself. Think.
    What was it about her? She was like the ruby, winking in the light, revealing one shining facet after another.
    She was a gypsy horse thief one moment, a teller of tales the next. She spoke clear, melodic English but had trouble reading it. Her French was impeccable; she had demonstrated that during Jonathan’s visit. Her commanding yet gracious way of dealing with the household retainers seemed odd in a girl raised amid a tribe of itinerant beggars.
    Could she have acquired such accomplished skills simply by imitation?
    It was the last unanswerable question that occurred to Stephen before he turned to his wife and held her close, and before sleep claimed him, he wondered exactly who it was he held in his arms.

Four
    “ G ajo!” roared a furious voice. “When I finish with you, there won’t be enough left of you to feed to the swine!”
    Juliana sprang up in bed and blinked at the sunlit chamber. Between half-open curtains, she spied a familiar figure. Beside her, she felt Stephen stir.
    In the endless, frozen seconds, she remembered.
    Stephen had stayed with her last night.
    He rubbed his eyes, then narrowed them in shock when he glimpsed their guest.
    Juliana held the coverlet to her chest. “Hello, Laszlo.” She ran her fingers through her rumpled hair. “I knew you would come. Did you follow my vurma? What took you so long?”
    Laszlo ignored her. With fire in his eyes, he glared at Stephen while rolling up his sleeves with slow and menacing deliberation.
    “Milady!” Jillie called from the doorway. “Ah, forgive me, ma’am, but ’twas Meeks who let the blighter in. Here, I’ll be rid of the baggage in no time.” She grabbed the back of Laszlo’s collar.
    He jerked away from her. His dark eyes widened, and histhick beard seemed to bristle with a life of its own. “Name of God!” he burst out in Romany. “She is a giant troll!”
    Untimely laughter tickled Juliana’s throat. “She is my maid.” She, too, spoke in Romany, then switched to English. “Jillie, this is Laszlo. Our guest.”
    “Guest!” he barked. “I would not sully myself under the roof of a tub-bathing Gajo swine.” He addressed Stephen in English. “Tell me your name. I would know at least that much before I kill you and send you to hell.”
    Stephen leaned against the bank of pillows and bolsters. There was a look of lazy ease about him as he lifted an eyebrow. “You certainly seem capable of doing so. Might I ask why?”
    Laszlo shook a furious fist at Juliana. “You ruined her! I would give my life to keep her safe, but you…you…”
    Heaving a sigh, Stephen stood. He was fully dressed in rumpled breeches and shirt. “Here now, wait—”
    With a roar of frustration, Laszlo lunged.
    Though Stephen was larger and heavier, the sudden attack unbalanced him and sent him crashing to the floor. The bed hangings quivered with the