Passion's Exile (9 page)

Then Father Peter announced that, because Sir Fergus had so generously provided food and lodging for all the pilgrims that passed this way—which announcement roused the poor old knight from his slumber—the pilgrims should repay him with a bit of entertainment, namely the telling of stories. He further charged that on each of the evenings of pilgrimage, two travelers should relate a story, so that by the time they reached St. Andrews, nearly everyone would have told one tale.

Blade fought the urge to roll his eyes. A man of few words, he didn’t relish telling stories. Fortunately, Father Peter was quick to volunteer himself for the first tale.

‘Twas a parable Blade had heard before, The Divided Horsecloth, so as the priest began to relate in dramatic fashion the misadventures of the merchant who yielded too much of his wealth to his son, Blade let his gaze wander along the upper chambers of the hall.

She was probably in that first room at the top of the stairs. The central chambers were larger rooms and likely reserved for the pilgrims. The last room belonged to Sir Fergus himself. The first chamber was much smaller, though well-appointed, with tapestries and carpets and even Sir Fergus’s pair of pet finches. ‘Twas where Wilham and he had stayed as guests when they’d defended the manor.

The priest finished up his tale, citing the moral as a warning to those who are about to marry off their sons, that they shouldn’t strip themselves so bare as to rely upon the charity of others in the end.

Blade dutifully applauded with the others, and the priest, beaming at the praise, lingered over it until he was forced to pass the task onto the next storyteller. The curly-headed scholar, Bryan, wasted no time in volunteering.

“An envious man and a covetous man were friends—as much as such men may be,” Bryan began.

Wilham elbowed Blade, whispering, “I like this one.”

“Saint Martin himself found them travelin’ upon the road and decided to reward their evil souls,” Bryan continued. “So he said, ‘I’ll bless each o’ ye with a gift. The man who reveals to me his desire shall be granted it, but the man who refrains from speech shall be granted twice what is bestowed upon his fellow.’”

Wilham grinned, and Blade nodded. He could already see the story would end badly, and he ignobly wondered how long the telling would take.

He folded the napkin over the food he’d scavenged, lifting his eyes again to the upstairs chamber. By the time all this nonsense was over, the lass would surely be asleep. After all, she’d looked half-dead on the road. He frowned down at the useless bundle in his lap, silently cursing as the tale droned on and on.

“And so the envious man said to Saint Martin,” the scholar finally concluded with great elan, “‘I can’t bear that my fellow might have double my bounty, therefore, I pray ye, pluck out one o’ my eyes that my fellow may lose both o’ his.’”

The pilgrims reacted variously, some gasping, some chortling, some nodding wisely, but a good third of them didn’t understand the tale. Of course, when Bryan tried to explain it to those who were lost, an argument commenced between him and his fellow scholars as to the distinction between envy and covetousness, and ‘twas a long while before anyone, besides their host—who sat snoring with his chin upon his hand—grew weary enough to seek slumber.

Rose’s stomach growled again. She winced, pressing the flat of her palm against her hollow belly to stifle its rumblings.

The chamber was lavishly furnished, from the Turkish carpets gracing the floor to the Arras tapestries hung on the walls. Three copper lanterns housed beeswax candles, and in a fit of extravagance, she’d lit all three. The bed was massive, carved of oak, and a cherry wood chest squatted beside the window, which featured both mullioned glass and wooden shutters. Rose settled gingerly onto the plump feather pallet, fingering the bedhangings of sapphire velvet.

Wink, with grim irony, perched atop the ornate steel cage that had once housed Sir Fergus’s finches but now hung empty and incriminating.

The chamber’s appointments, as sumptuous as they were, did nothing to assuage Rose’s hunger. After so little breakfast and such a long march, her dizzy head was no longer a pretense.

Yet almost worse than her hunger was her boredom. Despite her fatigue, she was far too anxious to sleep. In the hours since she’d arrived, she’d inspected every tapestry in great detail, paced across the carpet until she feared she’d worn a furrow in it, and nosed irreverently through the chest, looking for treasures, finding only linen sheets. She’d stared from the window while the sun took cover behind the hills, but no clouds had gathered to bloom in rosy profusion at its setting, and at twilight, neither bird nor squirrel nor deer had stirred amidst the endless expanse of grass.

Now, as she rose to peer once more from the window, the stars stood motionless in the stagnant heaven. The landscape, as fixed as the scenes in the wall tapestries, glowed with a dull, gray, unchanging haze.

She closed the shutters and sank onto the bed again with a sigh, staring at the thick oak door that separated her from the rest of the pilgrims. She wondered what they were doing.

“Certainly they’ve eaten well,” she told Wink. Sir Fergus’s cook was famed far and wide.

But surely the company had finished their meal by now, and they probably reveled in some sort of entertainment. Maybe Father Peter delivered a sermon. Or those two tanners, Ivo and Odo, served up a bawdy song as coarse as their hides. Perchance the three scholars expounded upon some fine point of philosophy. Or Guillot, the quiet mouse, amazed everyone with a resounding singing voice.

Rose grinned, enjoying her guessing game.

“I’ll wager Jacob the goldsmith knows a carole, and he’s dancin’ with Lettie and Brigit,” she told Wink, who shifted slowly from one foot to the other.

“Drogo the cook is likely recitin’ a dark legend about dragons,” she decided, “and Fulk, for all his size, probably has a light touch with a viol.”

Wink bobbed her head.

“The nuns are probably good for little except reflectin’ softly on the virtues o’ the Holy Mother. And Simon the palmer is sure to deliver some dry history. Perhaps Tildy plays the bagpipes.”

She chuckled. Wink fluffed out her feathers and let them settle. Rose wondered silently about the sad soldier, whose occupation she’d overheard from Brigit. She envisioned him playing tragic madrigals upon a harp.

Rose glared hard at the door now, itching to see through it. Most of all, she wondered what talents that dark outlaw, Blade, possessed. Shackled as he was, he could play neither pipe nor harp, nor would he be able to dance. He seemed to part with words begrudgingly, as if he must pay for each one he uttered, so she imagined he had little skill with weaving a story. But the more she thought about it, the deeper her curiosity grew, and finally, after what seemed to her an excruciating amount of patience, she could endure no more.

She gave Wink a warning glance. “Ye be still.”

Then she rose from the bed and tiptoed to the door, pressing her ear flush against the oak. The wood was too thick for her to hear anything. There wasn’t even a decent space to peer through at the hinge of the door.

She toyed with her necklace, idly winding a finger into the chain. Surely no harm could come of easing the door open just a crack. The chamber afforded a clear view of the great hall below, and no one would notice her peeking out from the door.

Very slowly, she lifted the latch. Her heart thumping, she pried at the door until it creaked open the merest bit.

She expected to see the arched beams of the ceiling and the great hall below, pilgrims gathering around a huge feast, laughing and singing and dancing. But all she heard was silence. All she saw was black.

Looming before her was the outlaw. His chest caught her at eye-level, blocking her view, and his shadowed face was indiscernible but for the soft flickering reflections in his eyes. At her startled gasp, he raised a warning finger to his lips, which only alarmed her further. But by then ‘twas too late to close the door.

Not that she didn’t try. But when she shoved forward against the thing, he blocked it with his body, then forced his way inside.

She should have screamed for help. He was an outlaw, after all. God knew what he intended—thievery, assault, murder. But something about his nerveless manner, and moreover, something about the tantalizing aroma of food wafting into the room, stopped her.

Still, she retreated to a safe distance as he entered. He leaned back against the door till it closed. Rose swallowed heavily. They were alone.

“What do ye want?” she whispered, one fist coiled tightly in the bedhangings.

He held one palm up in a gesture of peace, then swept back his cloak and offered her a linen bundle. “Hungry?”

She stared at the package, unconsciously licking her lower lip. But her wariness proved more compelling than her hunger.

“What is it?” she asked.

An almost indiscernible smile hovered about his mouth. “Does it matter?”

She lifted her chin proudly as if it did indeed matter, but couldn’t help gazing longingly at the bundle.

He unfolded the napkin to reveal what he’d brought. “Fish, peas, bannock. The cook has talent.”

“I know,” she replied without thought, realizing her mistake when he suddenly narrowed his eyes. “I’ve heard,” she amended.

“Ye must be hungry,” he coaxed.

Her gaze fixed upon the food. “Are those…sweetmeats?”

“Aye.”

Rose loved sweetmeats.

“I’ll just leave them here,” he murmured, walking slowly toward the cherry wood chest, like a hunter wary of spooking a deer.

Rose realized she was being ridiculous. The man meant her no harm. If he did, he certainly wouldn’t attempt anything here, where one shriek from her would send a dozen servants rushing to see what was amiss. Besides, he’d fetched an egg for her falcon out of simple kindness, the same kindness that prompted him to bring her food now.

He bent to place the bundle on the chest.

She loosened her grip on the bedhangings. “Here,” she said, stepping toward him with her arms extended. “I’m not the ungrateful shrew I seem.”

He carefully placed the laden napkin into her hands. His knuckles were rough and battle-scarred, and as they slid raggedly against her palms, a shiver of delicious fear raced through her. What a different life he must lead, she thought, from her sheltered existence at Fernie House. He was a knight, after all, who risked his life daily.

He snorted. “Eat.” He seemed in no hurry to leave, despite how his presence affected her appetite. He meandered about the chamber, perusing the tapestries, leisurely running a hand over the carved wood of the bedpost, almost as if he possessed all he touched.

Rose glanced down at the food. It smelled wonderful. Her stomach grumbled in anticipation.

“Go on,” he bade her, brazenly lifting a hand to scratch familiarly at Wink’s breast.

Bristling at the liberty with which he stroked her falcon, Rose nonetheless managed to hold her tongue. She settled onto the edge of the bed and began to pick at her supper. Despite her raging hunger, ‘twas difficult to eat while the dark and dangerous stranger prowled nearby. She hardly tasted the food. Her attentions were riveted on the mysterious, disgraced knight who went by the name of Blade.

He peered out of one of the shutters to the night beyond and asked casually, “How do ye know Sir Fergus?”

She choked on a sweetmeat. How had he guessed? “I…I don’t.”

His steely eyes turned to fasten on her. ‘Twas clear he saw through her lie.

She delicately cleared her throat. “That is, not well.”

“But ye’re acquainted with him.”

She reluctantly nodded.

“How?” The moonlight streamed in through the parted shutters, silvering his dark hair and sketching harsh shadows across his face. He might have shown her kindness, but he looked as dangerous as a stalking wolf.

She gulped, loath to reply.

He draped an arm over the top of the shutter and nodded toward the food. “Enjoyin’ your supper?”

Rose blushed. His point was obvious. He’d brought her food. The least she owed him was an answer. A
truthful
answer.

She sighed and stared at the scattering of sweetmeats still gracing the napkin. “I visited here a fortnight past.”

“And?”

Her gaze flitted about the room, everywhere but at him. “And…there was an incident.”

“An incident? What kind of incident?”

She stalled, wiping her mouth with the corner of the napkin, then finally mumbled, “My falcon ate Sir Fergus’s pet finches.”

His elbow dropped abruptly off the shutter, and the sudden rattle of chains made her look up. She was surprised by the momentarily unguarded alarm in his face.

“‘Twas an accident,” she said defensively. “‘Twasn’t Wink’s fault. How would a falcon know the difference between a pet and prey?”

She wasn’t certain, but when he nodded, it looked as if his lips were twitching with amusement.

And now that she’d revealed her acquaintance with Sir Fergus, she realized what a profound mistake she’d made.

The felon might well expose her. With this new knowledge, he trod too perilously close to the truth of her escape. She’d been a fool to tell him anything.

Summoning up what arrogance she could manage under his piercing regard, she sat arrow-straight. “Ye must take your leave now, sir. If ye’ll remember, ‘twas ye who said we shouldn’t be seen speakin’ together.”

“We’ve not been seen,” he assured her.

She pressed fingers to her temple. “I said I was ill.”

There was definitely an upward curve now to the corner of his lip. “I’ve seen better playactin’ at Michaelmas.”

She blushed furiously. “I
am
ill.”

He lifted a dubious brow at the near empty napkin. “Ye seem to have a healthy enough appetite.”

She crumpled the napkin over the unfinished fare and shoved it toward him. “I’ve lost it again.”

He only glanced at the bundle. “Save the rest for later.” He gave her a cocky nod, then swept past her, close enough so that his cloak brushed the bottom of her surcoat.