Passion's Exile (3 page)

“Come on, come on!” she commanded, struggling to stay atop the unruly beast and hauling sideways on the reins. Finally, the horse turned and surged ahead, galloping down the road, while Rose leaned forward over the horse’s pumping neck.

“Faster!” She kicked at the palfrey. “Faster!”

The horse’s hooves thundered on the hard-packed dirt, and Rose’s hair whipped against her cheek as her hood fell back. The scenery jerked by, and shadows raced past her head like veils in a frenzied dance.

She dared not look back. She knew they were coming. And though she rode with the speed of a coursing river, the bend in the road still stretched far before her, an eternity away, while the menacing storm behind loomed closer and closer.

What she proposed was hopeless. She knew that now. But ‘twas too late to withdraw, and she had no intention of surrendering. Now the curve seemed to rush toward her at breakneck speed, and she searched desperately for an opening in the dense woods. But the moonlight was shining on the wrong side of the road, and the trees flew by so rapidly, ‘twas nearly impossible to find a break in the forest.

When she turned at the bend, she saw she had no options, for beyond the curve, the road extended in a straight line away from the haven of the forest. ‘Twas now or not at all.

She hauled back hard on the reins. The palfrey whinnied in complaint, skidding in the dirt. Its hindquarters dipped low, and it took all of Rose’s strength not to tumble backward over the croup. She slid down, unmindful of the way Wink’s panicked talons dug into the tender flesh of her arm as she flung her hand to release the bird into the air and toward the safety of the woods. With trembling fingers, she unpinned the cloak from her shoulders and whirled it over the palfrey’s withers.

The cloak pin tumbled to the ground. Rose dropped low, still clinging to the reins. She patted the ground desperately for the pin, unable to find it, fearful the horse might spook and charge off at any moment, dragging her down the road.

She glanced frantically back over her shoulder. In another instant, the riders would turn the corner and run her down. She had to escape. Now! Where was the cursed pin?

At last her fingers closed around it, earning her a painful prick. She snatched up the piece and, with hopelessly clumsy fingers, finally managed to stab it through the wool of the cloak, securing the garment about the horse’s neck. Then she gave the palfrey a hearty slap to send it barreling down the road.

Which it refused to do. Instead, the contrary nag snorted in complaint, standing its ground.

“Bloody hell!” Her heart in her mouth, Rose drew the small eating dagger from her belt and jabbed at the horse’s hindquarters. With a startled snort, it bolted, charging off at a gallop.

Then Rose ducked into the cover of the woods to wait.

She didn’t wait long. She held her breath as the pursuit roared closer and closer. Finally the riders passed in a maelstrom of rocks and dirt, thankfully gulled by Rose’s cloak, which still flapped atop the fleeing horse like a passenger. How long the riderless palfrey would keep running, she didn’t know, nor could she guess how soon Gawter’s men would discover her ruse. She had to move away from the road at once.

Wink had perched in a nearby oak. Rose retrieved her, and the two of them fled through the dark forest.

Rose ran for what felt like miles, until she grew breathless and could no longer see the thoroughfare. Her lungs burned, and she pressed her palm to the sharp ache in her side.

“I think…we’ll be safe now,” she gasped, perusing the woods surrounding them.

Unfortunately, there was little to differentiate one tree from another. If she found her way to Stirling, ‘twould be by God’s grace. If she made it by morning, ‘twould be a miracle. Surrendering the horse had not only banished her from the main road to Stirling—it had cost her precious time.

She gazed up at the small patch of the heavens visible above the treetops, at the stars twinkling like gems. She hoped she remembered how to find…

“That way is north.” She pointed toward the northern star. “Stirlin’ lies to the south.” She moved her arm in a half-circle to the right. “That way.”

Naturally, her finger pointed toward the densest, deepest, darkest part of the wood. She swallowed hard, vividly imagining the fierce wolves that were probably licking their chops even now.

Then she frowned. There was no point in fueling the fire of her fears. Besides, hungry animals weren’t her only problem. She’d sent most of her belongings down the road on the satchel affixed to the palfrey. All that remained with Rose were her falcon, a purse full of coin, and the single surcoat on her back. She couldn’t afford to get lost in the woods, not with so few provisions.

“Come along, Wink,” she said with forced optimism. “‘Twill be an adventure. We’ll find the way. Ye keep watch for wild beasts.” She glanced up once more toward the night sky to get her bearings. “And I’ll keep prayin’ to Saint Christopher to get us safely to The Black Hound.”

This eve, the night before Saint Anselm’s, marked two years since he’d left Mirkhaugh, but for the man known only as Blade, it felt like a lifetime. Anselm was a fitting saint to commemorate the beginning of his own exile, he thought, as he pissed out his third pint of ale against an oak tree in back of The Black Hound.

The cursed longing for Mirkhaugh was strong in him tonight. Whether ‘twas being so near the manor of his birth, the significance of the date, or just the extra tankard of ale he’d drunk, he couldn’t say. But he felt the beckoning tug of home like a chain wresting a hound to heel.

A dying star streaked across the indigo sky, and he shivered, less from the unseasonably cool breeze than the doubt plaguing his spirit. Change was clearly in the air.

Perhaps Wilham was right. His trusted brother-in-arms had told him ‘twas time for Blade the Wanderer to die, and for Sir Pierce the Knight to be reborn, to return home. Two years, he’d said, was long enough for the people of Mirkhaugh to forget, long enough for them to forgive.

Maybe he
could
go back, Blade thought, staring at the stars twinkling in the dark sky.

But then the bloody image that was never far from his mind invaded his hopes, and he closed his eyes against a wave of pain. It didn’t matter what anyone else thought.
He
couldn’t forget what he’d done. He couldn’t forgive himself. And until he did, he couldn’t return.

The inn door swung out suddenly, and the subsequent rustle in the bushes startled Blade, prompting him to close his braies and quickly tie up the points. The Black Hound was crowded, and there was no telling who else might wander outside to make use of the bushes.

Before he could clear his throat in warning, he overheard a harsh whisper.

“‘Tis settled then. We’ll travel with the pilgrims.”

Blade hesitated. Someone whispered back, words too soft to decipher, then the first replied.

“O’ course ‘twill work. Nobody would think to look for us on a pilgrimage.”

The second whispered inaudibly again.

“People go missin’ all the time,” hissed the first. “No one will know what we’ve done. In a year they’ll stop lookin’ for him.”

Blade frowned, wondering what mischief was afoot.

“I swear to ye,” the first continued, “by the time we reach St. Andrews…” The voice took on an ominous tone. “Archibald o’ Laichloan will be dead. Dead and forgotten.”

Archibald of Laichloan? Blade knew that name. Laichloan was a stone’s toss from Mirkhaugh, a sizable chunk of land with many tenants, ruled by a rich nobleman, Laird John. Archibald was John’s son, a lad of perhaps thirteen or fourteen years and the heir to Laichloan.

Was some villain threatening to kill the lad? God’s bones, if Laird John lost his only son…

“Naught will go awry,” the first whisperer said. “Ye’ll see.”

The second murmured in reply.

“We won’t be caught. St. Andrews is a crowded place.” There was a pause. “Ye fret too much.”

Before Blade could confront the scoundrels, they scurried off in the dark, slipping back into the inn like a pair of crafty mice.

He couldn’t pretend he hadn’t heard them. True, he was no longer the laird’s neighbor. He hadn’t seen John in two years. But he couldn’t let harm come to the man’s son. He had to do something.

So he told himself. What he didn’t add was that he’d welcome any excuse to delay his return to Mirkhaugh. Hunting down assassins sounded like reasonable justification for staying on the move. Besides, he thought—reverting to his mercenary habits—Laird John would probably offer a sizable reward for the return of his heir.

He entered the inn, thinking the culprits would be easy to spot. But in the clamor and confusion of the crowd, ‘twas a hopeless task. He scowled, cursing under his breath. Damn his eyes, he didn’t know who he was looking for, didn’t know their size or sex or age. Their whispers had been indistinct, and the night had been too dark to discern their features. All he knew was that there were two of them and that they had dire plans for the son of Laichloan.

“Ach, there ye are! I got us a table.” Wilham gave him a wink, pressing a tankard of ale into his hands. Then he wrapped a companionable arm around Blade’s shoulder, nudging him toward a corner of the room.

The last thing he needed was another pint, Blade thought as they squeezed through the crushing throng. But that didn’t stop him from wanting one, and ‘twouldn’t stop him from drinking one.

“Not bad for a halfpenny, eh?” Wilham gave the wobbly table a shake.

Wilham spoke in jest, of course. He’d had to pay far more than a halfpenny for the luxury of a table in these cramped quarters and the lodging he’d procured for the night. But though their mercenary livelihood necessitated that they travel light, subsisting on what they could carry on their backs, their swords earned them more than a comfortable living. They’d earned enough coin in the last year alone to live in affluence the rest of their days.

Even at that, the table was little bigger than a merlin’s perch. Still, it served to hold a tankard and two elbows, both of which Wilham planted on the ale-sticky surface as soon as they were seated.

“Well?” Wilham prompted, his brown eyes twinkling expectantly.

Blade intentionally ignored him, melting back into the shadows to scan the crowd for dubious-looking characters.

“W-e-l-l?” Wilham drawled impatiently.

“Well, what?” Blade grumbled distractedly.

“Ye know what.” Wilham sighed. When he got no answer, he muttered his frustration into his cup of ale.

Blade frowned. “Did ye see anyone come in just now…a pair o’…” How could he describe them? Whisperers? “Anyone in a hurry, anyone suspicious?”

“In here?” Wilham shrugged. “Everyone is in a hurry, mostly for their next ale. Why?”

He explained what he’d heard outside—the whispers, the threat, the name of Laichloan. But instead of lighting up at the prospect of intrigue and peril as he usually did, Wilham was uncharacteristically quiet. He sipped at his ale and fixed his gaze thoughtfully upon the scarred surface of the table.

“Did ye hear me?” Blade asked.

“So,” Wilham said, scoring the oak further with the edge of his thumbnail, “ye’re off on another adventure then. Ye don’t intend to go home.”

Blade swallowed hard. Wilham was right, of course. He stared at his brooding companion, then let his gaze drift out over the milling crowd. How could he explain? How could he tell Wilham that until he was free of his guilt, he never intended to return?

He chewed at his lip, searching for the right words. “I…can’t.”

Wilham nodded, knowing, and looked up from his drink. Foam flecked the stubble above his lip, and his sorrel hair fell in boyish tangles over his forehead.

Blade felt like a churl. Sometimes Wilham seemed so young, even though the two were the same age. Perhaps ‘twas the man’s goodness that kept him youthful. His soul, unlike Blade’s, was unstained by sin. Wilham was always there with a merry smile and a friendly jest, no matter how foul Blade’s mood. It still amazed him that Wilham had stayed beside him all these months. Anyone else would have deserted him long ago.

And now what had Blade done? He’d wounded his only friend. He glimpsed rare sorrow in Wilham’s eyes, and it wrenched at his conscience to so callously fail his one champion.

He bit the inside of his cheek and glared into his foamy ale, ticking a ragged thumbnail against the side of his tankard. There were a hundred excuses he could make for avoiding Mirkhaugh. But ‘twas useless lying to Wilham. Wilham could see through his deceit. And ‘twasn’t in his heart to deceive his old friend.

“Damn it all, Wil,” Blade finally grumbled, “‘tis too soon.”

Wilham was disappointed. Blade could see that. But—good man that Wilham was—he’d never admit it.

Blade furrowed his brow, angry with himself. “Ye go,” he decided. “Ye go back. Ye have family at Mirkhaugh—brothers who grow as fast as weeds, sisters who hardly remember ye…” He smirked ruefully. “Lasses who long for your bed.”

Wilham obliged him with a chuckle. Then he straightened, wiping the suds and the smile from his mouth, and gripped Blade’s forearm. “I won’t go back. Not without ye.”

His fierce loyalty caught suddenly at Blade’s chest and lodged in his throat, bringing him perilously close to tears. He clenched his jaw and wrapped a bracing fist around his tankard as the space of silence thickened between them.

“Besides,” Wilham said at last, relaxing his face into its usual irrepressible smile and jostling Blade’s arm before he let go, “don’t we have the matter of a murder to solve?” He clapped Blade on the shoulder. “What good is your sharp blade without my sharp mind, eh?” he said, tapping a finger to his own temple.

Blade wasn’t about to argue with him. They’d traveled too long together, one step ahead of danger, foxing their way out of tight spaces by their swords and by their wits, for him to make light of Wilham’s cunning.

“Laichloan,” Wilham considered, stroking his chin. “That should bring us a tidy sum. On the other hand, I seem to remember Laichloan’s daughters were a handful o’ spoiled imps. The lad may be just as rotten. Are you sure there wouldn’t be a bigger reward
helpin’
these assassins?”