Chapter 2
Chapter 2
“Good morn, Hamish,” Carenza softly cooed.
One big brown eye peered at her through the shaggy black strands of hair as Hamish plodded forward. His heavy hooves made dull thuds on the damp sod of the ferme.
“That’s a good lad.”
The other cattle, two dozen in all, followed behind Hamish, nodding their heads.
An outsider would have been horrified at the sight. The great dark beasts had horns almost as wide as Carenza was tall. The cattle descended upon her like a black cloud now, enclosing her with their enormous bodies.
Cainnech, her father’s cooherd, would have scowled in disapproval. He constantly warned her away from the unpredictable animals.
She constantly ignored his advice.
But she currently limited her visits to Saturday morns, when Cainnech took a few hours off to meet his mistress in the village. Then Carenza could roam among the cattle in peace.
She also kept her visits from her father. If the Laird of Dunlop could see her now, he’d lock her in her chamber and throw away the key.
To him, coos were one of two things…
Dangerous beasts with foot-crushing hooves and belly-gouging horns.
Or supper.
But to Carenza, Hamish was an old friend. She’d raised him as a calf. Brushed him. Played with him. Taught him tricks. Comforted him when he’d had to be crogged and gelded. Told him stories she swore he understood.
Carenza wasn’t afraid of Hamish.
She was afraid for him.
As far as her father knew, his daughter was simply fond of riding. On Saturday morns, she’d saddle her palfrey Leannan and gallop off across the Dunlop land. What he didn’t know was that she always happened to ride to wherever the fold had gone to graze.
The grass was thin now. Snow dusted the tops of the mountains. Soon the cattle would be gathered to the stone-ringed close for the winter. And then…
Hamish nudged Carenza playfully with his nose, leaving a wet trail along her neck.
Carenza captured Hamish’s great head between her hands and scratched behind his ears. As she gazed lovingly into the animal’s enormous eyes, her own eyes welled with tears.
She would miss Hamish. But winter was coming. And sooner rather than later, she had to face the sickening truth.
Her father had explained it to her when she was a wee lass. He’d told her that the six-year-old cattle were always culled.
Never having heard the word, she’d secretly followed him out to the close to see what he meant. She saw a servant leading one of the coos to a stall away from the others. While Carenza watched through a gap in the fence, the man picked up a heavy mallet and swung it at the coo’s head, knocking her to the ground.
Carenza screamed in terror.
She would have run to the animal’s rescue. But her father prevented her.
Upset at her for following him, he scooped Carenza into his arms and strode away from the close. She kicked and pummeled him, begging him to save the coo. But his jaw was set. And when she peered over his shoulder in distress, she saw the servant cut the animal’s throat.
Tears of shock and dismay sprang to her eyes. A wail of unimaginable woe escaped her. She collapsed against her father’s chest, sobbing at first in horror, then with forlorn hopelessness.
He tried to soothe her. He tried to explain that it was the coo’s time. That she’d lived a good, long life. That the clan would starve if they didn’t have meat for the winter. He assured her that the servant had done his best to make the coo’s death quick and painless. And that Carenza would have to learn about sacrifice and the cycle of life and death.
But the only powerful message she received from that day was that “cull” meant “kill.”
Hamish snorted and nudged Carenza’s shoulder, startling her from the horrific memory.
She smiled. “O’ course I brought ye a treat.”
She rummaged in the satchel she’d hung from Leannan’s saddle, pulling out one of the shriveled apples she’d found among the fallen leaves in the orchard. She sliced the fruit into pieces with her dagger, distributing them to the coos, one by one.
The coos were exceptionally polite. They waited their turn, even when she had to return to the satchel for more apples.
Eventually the supply was exhausted. Most of the cattle, understanding she had no more, began to wander away.
Hamish remained. He liked Carenza’s scratches and conversation as much as the treats she brought.
“I’m goin’ to miss ye, lad,” she said, letting her eyes brim over with tears as she brushed the hair back from Hamish’s sweet face. “I’m goin’ to miss your gentle eyes. And your curious nature. The way ye always trot up to keep me company and listen to my stories. How ye protect the new wee calves from the other coos.”
She lingered a moment longer, resting her brow upon Hamish’s brow, between his long horns, inhaling his peaty odor.
Then she sniffed back her sorrow and explained, “I have to go now. But I’ll be back in a sennight.” She added in sober tones, “Maybe sooner.”
She rode away before Cainnech could return. Tomorrow was the Sabbath, his day off. That meant the cattle wouldn’t be driven to the stone close for at least a few more days. Hamish was safe enough till then.
Meanwhile, she needed to pry from her father what day he planned to move them. And what day he planned to cull them. Nay, she corrected, to kill them.
It had been seven days since Hew had been in the company of a lass. Not since he’d swived one. Since he’d even laid eyes on one. In his entire life, he’d never experienced such famine.
But it was a challenge he felt compelled to undertake. After all, in the end, women had brought him only heartache. Suffering. Enslavement. Humiliation. He needed to forget about them for a while.
That might have been more bearable if the monks hadn’t been such poor company. Though they weren’t sworn to silence, they did revere quiet contemplation. Hew couldn’t interest them in a game of draughts, a walk to the loch, or a hunt for coneys. Instead, they pored over religious tomes, prayed at all hours, and ate in silent reflection.
Chewing on a trencher of tough horsebread made of oats, rye, and peas, he regarded the somber faces around the table. The dull abbot. The stern prior. The boring monks.
He wished he’d been dropped into a convent rather than a monastery. Not that he would have tried to romance a nun. Even amorous Hew had his limits. Besides, he’d made that mistake once before. But after six days of staring at pasty-faced men, he would have been grateful for a glimpse of a rosy cheek, a pink mouth, a fluttering lash.
He swallowed, and the bread scraped down his throat, as if punishing him for his insufferable lust. He had to stop thinking about women. Stop dwelling on what he couldn’t have.
Adding to his frustration was the fact he was half-starved. He’d always heard monks ate well. The monastery near Rivenloch was full of paunchy old men and soft-bellied youths. But these monks, raised on portions sized for a child, were gaunt and gangly.
To make matters worse, he hardly knew where to begin with his investigation. There wasn’t much to go on. The monastery’s treasures had vanished without a trace. The only way to discover the guilty party was to either catch them in the act or find one of the missing items. But that was as likely as locating a particular flea on an ox.
On the other hand, if he set out to scour the neighboring village for evidence, something might turn up.
And he might find some real food.
And he might get a glimpse of a feminine creature.
“Any progress, Sir Hew?” the abbot suddenly intoned, startling him.
Hew choked down the last rough morsel of bread. “Not so far. I’ll venture to the village today to see what information I can acquire.”
“The village?” the prior groused, gathering his bushy gray brows into a frown. “What do ye hope to find there?”
The vision of a table groaning with food and a lass feeding him grapes popped into Hew’s head. He dismissed it at once.
“Clues,” he replied.
“What sort o’ clues?” the prior pressed.
The abbot placed a gentle silencing hand on the prying prior’s sleeve. “I suspect a warrior o’ Rivenloch knows what he’s doin’ and needs no help from us.”
The chided prior’s eyes frosted over briefly, but he said nothing, bowing his dutiful head.
“Still,” the abbot said to Hew, “I hope ye’ll be…discreet.”
“Of course,” Hew said. “Is there anything you need from the village?”
The prior frowned as if offended. “We have all we require.”
The abbot smiled. “That won’t be necessary.”
Hew disagreed, and he suspected some of the monks did as well. They seemed like they could use a hearty roast. A barrel of strong beer. Perhaps a roll in the hay.
It was a four mile walk to the village. Hew frowned as he trod down the knobby road beneath the gray sky, his axe slung across his shoulders. His belly growled despite the horsebread. So he distracted himself by focusing on the crime he’d been hired to solve.
Three questions came to mind about the missing treasures.
First, who would have wanted to steal them?
They were obviously taken, not for their religious significance, but for their value. Anyone who needed or wanted wealth could have been responsible. Which left a lot of suspects.
And that led to his second question. What would the thief have done with them?
He might have sold them. The jewelry could be marketed to a merchant. But anyone could see the silver cross and gold chalice were religious items. So if they’d gone to a merchant, it would have to be a disreputable one.
He might have had them melted down. That would require a small crucible. Crucibles were used mostly by silversmiths and goldsmiths, who resided in the village.
He might have run away with them. But Hew didn’t think so. The thief had returned again and again to the monastery. He likely lived nearby.
He might have hidden them to be sold later, when less suspicion would be roused. That would be the worst possibility. Hew couldn’t very well ransack the whole village, searching for stolen goods.
The third question was how had the thief gained access to the monastery?
It was well known that nobles sent their valuables to monasteries for safekeeping since it was considered a mortal sin to rob a holy place. Most thieves would think twice before risking their soul by filching God’s property.
The monks were up for worship all night and all day. Matins. Prime. Terce. Sext. None. Vespers. Compline. A thief would have to time his entry into the monastery to dodge the sessions of prayer.
A stranger wouldn’t know the layout of the monastery. Where the treasures were kept. Who resided where. Which rooms were occupied at which hours.
Only someone familiar with the building could easily carry out such thefts. That meant the thief had to be someone who currently resided at the monastery, had lived there once, or visited regularly.
Hew would be sure to ask the prior who made deliveries of food and supplies. He’d learn which outsiders serviced the monastery in terms of cleaning or repairs or harvesting. And he’d ask the abbot whether any novices had recently changed their minds about entering the order.
Armed with those questions and his trusty axe, he figured he could get answers fairly quickly.
What he couldn’t do so quickly was get past the appetizing array of lasses who populated the village streets.
He tried. He glowered as he walked along, training his eyes on the ground a few feet ahead of him.
Even then, his ear caught on snippets of conversation, feminine laughter, and a few speculative whispers as he passed.
He happened to brush a lady’s skirts, and he lifted his gaze only momentarily to apologize. But the lass caught his eye and smiled. And of course, she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. At least the most beautiful in a sennight.
Tightening his jaw, he murmured an apology and swiftly ducked into the first doorway he found for refuge. It was an alehouse. Perfect. He could use the distraction of a pint. And the local alehouse was the best place to collect gossip about a village’s residents.
The place fell silent at the sight of his axe, as if they feared he was a Viking on the rampage. He supposed that was understandable. He was taller than most, with long straw-colored hair and pale gray eyes, and his sister said he was as broad as an ox. But he was Scottish, born and bred, not a rampaging Viking. It was his ancestors who had been the rampaging Vikings.
Hanging his plaid on a peg, he nodded a greeting to the attractive apple-cheeked alewife. She had a twinkle in her eye that told Hew she liked the cut of his trews. He tried not to think about it.
“An ale, I pray you,” he said, averting his eyes. Then he reconsidered. “Got anything cooking on the fire?”
“Mutton pottage, m’laird,” she said. “Warm. Tasty. And satisfyin’. Or so I’m told.”
Hew couldn’t mistake the innuendo in her voice. But he could ignore it. “A trencher of that as well then.”
He chose a seat against the wall, propping his axe beside him, and nodded to the other inhabitants of the alehouse.
A velvet-clad nobleman scowled into his ale. A pair of laborers warmed their knees by the fire. Two dusky-skinned foreigners played at dice on a table. And three well-dressed commoners chatted animatedly in the corner.
Hew listened. The three were merchants, discussing the upcoming village fair. According to their discussion, they felt there were too many wool merchants being allowed in from other parts. Woolmakers Row, they said, was going to be crowded with competing vendors.
That wasn’t useful to Hew. Wool merchants had no use for crucibles. Nor would they be likely to try to sell religious artifacts.
His trencher of pottage and ale arrived, and he dug in at once. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. But the simple peppery stew with its chunks of mutton, leeks, and kale tasted like food of the gods.
He suspected hunger had likewise clouded his judgment about the alewife’s attractiveness. On second glance, she was at least a dozen years older than him and lacking two of her front teeth.
Finishing off the meal, Hew sipped at his ale and eyed the lone nobleman. He wore a jeweled ring and a silver medallion. His plaid was closed with a silver brooch, and a jewel adorned his velvet cap.
“Your pardon, sir,” Hew said, “but may I inquire as to where you obtained your brooch? ’Tis a work of great craftsmanship.”
The man gave him a cursory glance and decided Hew’s saffron leine and woolen trews were of fine enough quality to warrant further conversation. “’Twas made by a silversmith in the village by the name of Ingram.”
“Fine work.”
The man sniffed.
Hew nodded a good day, then retrieved his axe, donned his plaid, and headed into the gloomy morn to look for Ingram the silversmith.
He wasn’t hard to find. But Hew discovered within moments that Ingram took great pride in his craft. He was horrified at the idea of melting down another silversmith’s work for coin.
“Do you know of any in the village who might do such a thing?” Hew asked.
Ingram stroked his gray beard, possibly considering ruining a rival’s reputation. But in the end, he was a man of solidarity. “No silversmith worth his craft would, m’laird, unless the owner wished the piece altered for his own purposes.”
“I see.”
“So if ye have silver ye’re tryin’ to profit off of,” he said, arching a judgmental brow, “ye’re better sellin’ it to a Lombard or a chapman.”
Hew had no wish to offend the man, so he nodded his thanks and continued on his way.
That left goldsmiths. He found only one. To his dismay, despite the sign indicating the shop was owned by William the Goldsmith, William had recently expired, and his widow had taken over his trade.
She was a sad and lovely lass with black hair and blue eyes. Of course. Any other day, he might have tried to coax a smile from her rosy mouth. But not today. Today he was on a mission.
“Tell me,” he asked her, “did your husband ever melt down a gold piece?”
“Nay, not that I know of,” she said, confiding, “But I’d be willin’ to do it, if ye have coin.”
By her tone, she was hungry for work. Perhaps her husband’s patrons didn’t trust her skills. In Hew’s experience, a member of the guild was a member of the guild. It didn’t matter whether a goldsmith was young, old, male, or female.
“How much is that?” he asked, nodding to a tiny gold ring decorated with intertwined vines.
“Twenty shillin’s.”
Twenty shillings was enough to buy two coos. But the woman’s sad blue eyes were troubling him. So he dug the shillings out of his coin purse and saw her face light up with hope as she wrapped the ring in a linen scrap and pressed it into his palm.
What he was going to do with it, he didn’t know. It was too small for his fingers. And since he’d sworn off women for the moment, he wasn’t going to gift it to his next sweetheart. He tucked it into his satchel. Perhaps he’d give it to his little sister, Nichola.
Over the next few hours, he visited the handful of shops where used goods were sold. Though all of them featured jewelry—it was a common item to sell for those needing quick coin—the pieces didn’t match the abbot’s descriptions.
No one had a silver cross or a gold chalice, though one unsavory shopkeeper boasted a splinter of the true cross. A splinter that had probably come from the ruins of a henhouse.
By the end of the day, discouraged by his fruitless search, Hew headed to another alehouse to feed his belly and gather more information. This time he chose a dingy, cheap place where serfs and laborers might gather and more could be had than just ale. It seemed like the kind of spot where nefarious thieves who would steal from a monastery might gather to brag about their spoils.
As he expected, within the alehouse were several unsavory characters. This time when he appeared with his axe, he saw several men clap hands on the hilts of their own weapons, as if they expected a fight. He ordered an ale and a trencher and sat in a corner to observe them.
As the heavily-wrinkled, gruff-voiced alewife brought him his supper, she told him she had a pair of daughters if he had another kind of hunger, giving him a broad wink in case he didn’t catch her meaning.
Hew seldom turned down female attention. But he never paid for it. Not only did it trouble his romantic nature. Seeking companionship in a place like this was risking the pox. Besides, he was on a strict no-female regimen. So he muttered in the negative and turned his attention to his supper.
The pottage tasted like it might have been made with mouse meat. But it was cheap, and he was hungry enough to choke it down.
Two rough-looking men in mud- and blood-stained leines whispered over their ales. He could only hear fragments of what they said. But it seemed to do with pigs and how busy they’d been lately with the autumn butchering.
At another table, a nervous young man with an older brother had taken the alewife up on her offer of more than supper. They were waiting for their turn with the daughters. Hew was tempted to warn them away. But the older brother was intent on ushering his sibling through this rite of passage, so there wasn’t much Hew could do.
A shamefully drunk merchant lolled in one corner, and his apprentice kept stealing coins from his purse. It was wrong, of course, but most merchants didn’t compensate their apprentices fairly. The lad might filch a penny from his master once in a while. But Hew doubted the lad made a habit of thieving churches.
Hew took a final swig of ale. He was getting nowhere. Then a new man entered the alehouse and hung his plaid on the wall. He had a broad back and shaggy brown hair. The pig butchers waved him over.
“Cainnech!”
Cainnech nodded and joined them. “How’s pigs?”
The men groaned in mutual exhaustion.
The alewife set an ale down in front of the newcomer. “Still comin’ to town for Mary, are ye?”
“Every Saturday,” Cainnech replied.
“Pah!” she groused. “Ye let me know when ye get an itch for one o’ my daughters.”
All three growled and waved her off.
“How are the coos?” one of the pig men asked Cainnech.
“Haven’t driven them to the close yet.”
“Better watch for caterans,” one of the pig butchers warned. “I heard Boyle’s lads have been reivin’ this year.”
Caterans. Hew doubted there was any connection between stolen cattle and stolen church treasures. Caterans were usually just troublesome lads who routinely crossed over clan borders to take their neighbor’s animals. Still, he’d keep listening.
“Och aye, the Boyles,” the other pig man concurred. “That clan’s had a grudge against Dunlop for years.”
Cainnech disagreed. “Not anymore. Boyle’s made peace with Dunlop. He’s got two sons o’ marryin’ age now, and they’ve set their eyes on Dunlop’s daughter.”
“Carenza,” one of the pig men said on a sigh.
“Everyone’s set their eyes on Carenza,” the other replied.
“A real beauty, that lass,” the first said.
Cainnech scoffed. “But her da’s ne’er goin’ to wed her to a Boyle. He’s got his sights set higher.”
They all drank to that.
Then Cainnech volunteered, “Truth to tell, I’d just as soon sell the cattle before Martinmas than deal with butcherin’ ’em.”
“Wouldn’t we all?” the pig butchers agreed, raising their cups in a second toast.
The mention of selling cattle made Hew remember he meant to procure food for the monastery. A coo on the hoof would make a wise purchase, providing milk, butter, and fresh cheese every day. He almost regretted spending so much coin on the gold ring.
The hour was growing late. The alewife led the two brothers to a back room. The merchant had dozed off. His apprentice was gulping down the second trencher of pottage he’d bought with the coin he’d pilfered. The pig and coo men were now discussing the weather. Hew didn’t think he’d get any more useful information today.
He had to find the village butcher shop before it closed. He’d made up his mind. He’d purchase a slab of ham with the coin he had left.