Passion's Exile (8 page)

But they didn’t pass, not at first. Instead, they stopped to exchange words with Father Peter. At one point, they drew so close that Rose could hear the squeak of tack and the horses’ huffing. One of the riders chuckled. His mount stamped upon the sod. The tension stretched inside her like a silken thread strained to its limit.

And then, finally, they rode on. Rose, sick with worry, weak with relief, hazarded a glance at them as they left. They weren’t Gawter’s men. She shut her eyes tight and expelled a shuddering sigh.

But just as she brought her falcon out and turned back toward the path, she felt
his
keen glare. Blade. Her breath froze in her throat. His eyes narrowed perceptively, and she faltered beneath his wordless accusation, blushing with guilt. Then his penetrating gaze left her to study the departing riders. She bit the inside of her cheek, suddenly certain Blade knew what she’d done and would reveal her crime at any moment, calling after the men to come collect her and escort her back to Averlaigh.

But whatever suspicions he had, he kept them to himself. Sending her a puzzled frown, he lumbered back onto the road and rejoined the march.

‘Twas a long while before she breathed easily, but at least she no longer struggled to stay awake on the path. Though her eyes stung with fatigue and her limbs hung like lead weights, she was too anxious to drowse.

Only when the sky darkened from periwinkle to deep azure in the fading light of the afternoon, only when they broke through the fringe of trees marking the place where the forest ended and the gentle slope of Clackmannan began, did Rose realize where they’d come.

Rising before her against the dimming canopy was a grand manor that might have looked welcoming to Rose in her weary state, but for the familiar yellow banner streaming out from its square tower. Her heart sank. They’d come to de Murs, the home of addled old Sir Fergus, with whom Wink had had…the unfortunate accident…just a fortnight ago.

“Lucifer’s ballocks,” Rose whispered to the falcon. “Not de Murs.”

It hadn’t been Wink’s fault.

They’d stopped at this exact spot on their journey from Fernie House to Averlaigh a fortnight ago. ‘Twas only for a few hours, to rest their horses and ease their hunger. Sir Fergus had been a generous, if feeble-witted, host. But while his renowned cook was preparing a supper feast for them, Rose and Wink had retired to his guest chamber. While Rose was napping, Wink managed to pry open the cage of prize finches Sir Fergus kept in the room and had enjoyed her own feast. What ensued was an ugly scene Rose didn’t care to recall.

They couldn’t possibly stay here. Sir Fergus was sure to recognize her. Or at least her bird. And yet there was nowhere else to go.

With each step up the arduous path toward the manor, Rose’s pace slowed and her thoughts raced.

Maybe she could abandon the pilgrims and slip away unnoticed. She could hide in the stables or the mews and rejoin the company in the morning.

But nae, there was
one
who would surely note her absence. Blade had been eyeing her all day like a hawk watching a mouse.

Rose silently cursed. What a coil she was in. Of all the houses in Scotland, why had they come to de Murs? Even now, from one of the high windows, a servant waved at them in welcome. If only she had her cloak or something—anything—to cover her face… Even so, the by-now-infamous feathered, one-eyed murderer would surely give her away.

If she were discovered now, if all her running had been for nothing, and she had to return to Averlaigh, to her pathetic mother and the depraved man she was supposed to marry…

Rose felt ill.

Ill.

That was it! Aye, she felt ill, quite ill, too ill to dine with the others. Too ill, in fact, to even meet their host.

Carefully furrowing her brow, she tried thinking ill thoughts. ‘Twas little challenge. Having traveled all night and all day with scarcely a bite to eat, forced to consort with outlaws and scoundrels, pursued by men who wished to slay her, she was already half sick with apprehension. She let out a weak moan. The nuns turned to see what was amiss.

Rose pressed her fingers to her temple.

“Does your head ail ye?” one of the sisters inquired.

“Aye.” Rose emitted a shaky sigh. “It troubles me from time to time.”

“Maybe ye should go directly to bed when we reach the manor,” the other sister suggested.

Rose nearly smiled at how neat and simple it had been. But just for good measure, she kept up her pretense, lurching along the road, clutching her head, and moaning occasionally.

At one point, she wondered if perhaps she should be less conspicuous. After all, she didn’t wish Sir Fergus to fetch her a physician who might reveal her fakery.

But ‘twas too late. Unbeknownst to her, she’d already drawn the eye of the one with enough cunning to expose her.

Blade’s senses grew alert the moment he saw the lady weave off the path. He thought at first ‘twas mere fatigue. Her strength had been waning for the last hour. He’d seen it in the declining angle of her arm and the slowing of her step. He’d begun to wonder if she’d make it up the shallow hill to de Murs manor.

But now she’d started groaning as if gripped by pain.

“Old Sir Fergus,” Wilham murmured obliviously, nodding toward the fluttering pennon. “Do ye think he’ll remember us?”

“I doubt it,” Blade replied, watching as one of the nuns spoke with the lady. “The man’s mind is like a sieve.”

“I recall from our last visit, however,” Wilham said, “that the old man keeps a fine cook. We’ll eat well anyway.”

Blade grunted. The lady staggered along the path. Was she ill? Injured? Or simply weak with hunger?

She was cradling her head in her hand when Wilham finally took notice. “What’s wrong with
her
?” he whispered.

“She hasn’t eaten since morn.”

Wilham lifted a surprised brow, then flashed him a sly grin. “I knew ye’d been watchin’ her.”

“I’ve been watchin’ everyone.”

Blade wished he had time to knock the smug smile off his friend’s face, but they were at the house now, and de Murs’ steward greeted them.

The man’s hearty welcome had scarcely spilled from his lips when one of the nuns hastened forward to whisper something in his ear. He nodded and clapped his hands for a maid, who immediately escorted the young lass and her falcon off inside the manor.

Blade sighed impatiently, foiled by how easily she’d slipped from his vigil. His suspicions regarding her had grown since their encounter with the knights on the road. She’d been rattled when the men reined up, though the three seemed harmless enough. They’d told Father Peter they were on a mission to purchase arms at the Dunfermline fair. Why should they cause the lass such alarm?

Unless…she feared they would recognize her.

“What’s her name?” he asked Wilham suddenly as they entered the manor with the rest of the pilgrims. “Do ye know?”

“Who? Our falconer?”

He nodded. Wilham shrugged.

“Where did she come from?” he pressed, but Wilham didn’t know that either.

All at once, Wilham’s eyes widened. “Ye don’t think
she’s
the assassin?”

“‘Tis possible.”

“Ye’re jestin’.”

“I hope I’m wrong,” he said. Blade didn’t like to think that such a seeming innocent was capable of such villainy, of so bloodthirsty a crime, any more than Wilham did. And yet, of all the pilgrims, the lovely and delicate wisp of a woman was so far the most suspicious.

“Impossible,” Wilham said as they stepped into the cavernous great room of Sir Fergus’s manor. “That blushin’ flower is as sinless as a saint, or I’ll eat my trews.”

Blade hoped Wilham was right. But the fact that she’d joined the pilgrimage unprepared, that she’d concealed herself from the riders, that she’d hurried upstairs before Sir Fergus could lay eyes on her, didn’t bode well for her innocence.

As it turned out, Sir Fergus remembered neither Wilham nor Blade, though Blade had championed de Murs less than a year ago against the man’s greedy cousin who’d tried to lay claim to the manor. The old knight’s mind was as weak as his sword arm, but Blade had been amply paid for his defense of de Murs’ lands at the time, and the table Sir Fergus spread now for the pilgrims displayed that generosity as well.

Unlike its owner, the manor was kept in good order. What the knight was lacking in wits, his servants made up for in hospitality. After Sir Fergus issued a faint welcome to the pilgrims, several pitchers of water were brought so the guests could wash the dust from their hands and faces. Then they were led to the enormous trestle table in the midst of the hall, where flagons of golden perry awaited to quench their thirst.

Sconces brightened the great hall, whose heavy-beamed ceiling arched upward to double height and whose stone floor was laid with fresh rushes. The massive hearth at the end of the hall flickered with cheery flame, and the wooden screens concealing the buttery were painted with twining vines. Twin stairways spiraled up opposite sides of the hall, leading to half a dozen upper chambers.

Blade perused the doors along the upper story as they sat down to supper. The lass hid behind one of them, secure for the moment, but he wondered if, when they awoke on the morrow, she’d still be there.

The food
was
excellent, as Wilham had remembered—roast pike in brasey sauce, mussel and leek caudle, freshly baked bannocks, spring peas with onions, a salad of spring cresses, and a fine Bordeaux to wash it all down.

Blade ate with difficulty. Shackles were not conducive to proper table manners, and the clank of metal against his flagon every time he took a drink made him wince in irritation.

Still, he was glad of his decision to embark upon the pilgrimage with chains of disgrace upon him. It meant he could observe the travelers without interruption, for most of them left him in peace, fearing to speak to a dishonored knight. Most of them except the lass, he amended, who was too unworldly to realize she shouldn’t consort with his kind.

“Blade.” Wilham nudged him, then gestured meaningfully with his brows toward the spot where the three scholars sat. The lads were engaged with the nuns in what seemed to Blade to be a harmless discussion.

“Fate?” Bryan groused. “Faugh! I can’t wait for Fate to steer my course.”

“Nor I,” Thomas agreed. “I’d make my own fortune.”

Daniel nodded. “‘Tis why we go to St. Andrews.”

“All great things—knowledge, wealth, power,” Bryan decreed, “come not to those who dally…”

“But to those who pursue them relentlessly,” Thomas finished.

“And bearin’ that in mind, ‘twould seem,” Daniel concluded, “that the most virtuous o’ wives may be found in such a place as St. Andrews.”

“Where pilgrims and seekers o’ truth gather,” Bryan chimed in.

“And where men of enlightenment might be welcomed,” added Thomas.

“Do ye not agree, Sister Mary?” asked Daniel.

Sister Mary looked as glassy-eyed as a deer.

“Perhaps,” Sister Ivy deflected softly. “But matters o’ marriage are oftentimes best left in the hands o’ God.”

Sister Mary came out of her stupor, blinking in wonder. “The hands o’ God?”

“Aye,” Sister Ivy said. “Just as
our
destinies, sweet sister, have been so decreed.”

The scholars looked displeased with her answer. Before long, however, a new debate picked up their spirits, one involving the question of which God created first, the hen or the egg.

“Did ye hear them?” Wilham whispered, nudging Blade. “They spoke o’ makin’ their fortune in St. Andrews.” He leaned in close, gesturing with a chunk of bannock. “What greater fortune could there be than ransomin’ the son of a wealthy laird?”

“The plotters I heard didn’t speak o’ ransom, Wilham. They spoke o’ murder.” He finished off the last gulp of wine. “Besides, those three couldn’t agree on the most efficient way to kill a flea.” He pointed at Wilham’s fish. “Are ye goin’ to finish that?”

“I couldn’t eat another bite.”

While Wilham watched in slack-jawed astonishment, Blade stabbed the pike with his eating dagger and moved it surreptitiously onto the linen napkin in his lap, where a mound of peas and a wedge of bannock already nestled.

What moved him to such selflessness, he wasn’t certain, but while the kitchen lads continued to present platter after platter of savory dishes to the table, all he’d been able to think about was the half-starved waif upstairs. As far as he’d seen, no one had knocked at any of the doors to offer the lass sustenance.

If he knew Sir Fergus, the old knight had forgotten all about his upstairs guest. And apparently, in the exuberance of sating their own appetites on the delicious fare, so had all the other pilgrims. Even Wilham.

“Midnight nibble?” Wilham asked, eyeing his cache.

Blade shrugged. Let Wilham believe that, if he liked. ‘Twas easier than explaining the strange protectiveness he felt for a woman who might well be a murderer.

Supper seemed to drag on. Blade drummed his fingers restlessly upon the table and listened with little interest to the conversations around him.

Fulk soothed Drogo’s ego, whispering to him that despite the impressiveness of the meal, Drogo still reigned as the finest cook in all of Scotland.

The tanners, Ivo and Odo, toasted loudly, draining their flagons again and again. Blade wondered if they knew how much stronger Bordeaux was than the beer to which they were accustomed.

Brigit the brewster giggled at something the goldsmith said, leaning close to give him an unobstructed view of her ample bosom, which earned him a sharp kick from Lettie, across the table from him.

The silent soldier sat staring into his wine, garnering several shy glances from the lad, Guillot, beside him.

And seated beside their host, Simon the palmer and Father Peter orated about past pilgrimages until Sir Fergus’s head drooped and his thin gray beard began to dip into his trencher.

Sweetmeats were brought last to the table, and Blade, having little taste for sweets, dumped the lot of his serving into his napkin. He nudged Wilham. After a disgruntled frown, Wilham surrendered his portion as well.