Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Carenza peered into the square of polished steel that served as a mirror. She was dressed now from her bath, which she’d scented with lavender to disguise the smell of cattle. She combed each strand of dark hair into a tidy braid that hung to her waist. Pinched her cheeks. And practiced the wide-eyed gentle smile that pleased her father.
It was her duty, after all, to keep him happy.
Ten years ago, she had been devastated by the loss of her mother.
But her father had been utterly ruined. The death of his wife had left him deeply melancholy. Dangerously depressed. Inconsolable.
Carenza learned as a young lass she had to tread carefully around him. God forbid she should complain. Or weep. Or counter his commands.
She feared if she made him unhappy, he might leave her as well. And then she would be all alone in the world.
But as long as she kept him happy…
It wasn’t too difficult.
She only had to be the perfect daughter.
She smoothed her brows and checked her teeth. She adjusted the pearl pendant around her throat. Then she tugged her leine into place on her shoulders, adjusting the soft arisaid of muted gray tartan that brought out the smokiness in her eyes.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the reflection of a wee beast behind her. A brown rat. Standing on its hind legs in the middle of her chamber floor. Sniffing at the air.
She lowered the mirror and turned to face the animal.
“Ye’re early, Twinkle,” she told him. “I haven’t a crumb yet.”
The rat settled back down onto all fours.
“Come back in an hour,” she said. “I’ll be back from supper and bring ye a nice treat.”
Twinkle’s whiskers twitched. Then, as if he understood, he turned round and returned to the shadows of the garderobe.
That was another thing she had to hide from her father. He knew she had a fondness for animals. But he didn’t realize how all-encompassing her affections were. In the last ten years, under her father’s nose, she’d kept a menagerie of pets. At any given time, her chamber might be crawling with pups, kittens, ducklings, doves, coneys, mice, rats, toads, or lizards.
She’d gone through so many shrieking lady’s maids that she finally told her father she’d rather tend to herself.
In spring, she visited the lambs and kids, piglets and calves, stots and colts. She fed the birds in the forest and had a crow that liked to bring her treasures in return—bits of pottery and ribbon and coins. She studied the bees in their hives. Butterflies hatching from their chrysalises. Chicks emerging from their eggs. And tadpoles turning into frogs.
Because she couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing her father with her strange interests, she was careful not to let him see too much.
She also worked exceptionally hard in the hours she wasn’t tending to her fauna to ensure she was as well-educated as her noble peers. As well-mannered as her father expected. Skilled with a needle. Accomplished at the lute. Softspoken. Kindhearted. Everything one could wish for in a lady and a daughter.
Perfect.
She glanced in the mirror again and brushed a stray eyelash from her cheek. Then she set the steel square down on the table beside her ivory comb. Holding her head high and smoothing the wrinkles from her pale yellow skirts, she pasted on a brilliant smile and left her chamber to greet her father for supper.
The clan’s chatter lowered to murmurs as Carenza entered the great hall. Her father turned to her, and approval shone in his eyes. Breathing a sigh of relief, she smiled and sat beside him.
“Ye look lovely, as always,” her father murmured.
“Och, Da,” she teased, “ye’re still blind as a bat.”
He laughed.
She liked making him laugh. Laughter kept his grief at bay.
The new kitchen lad approached with oatcakes and ruayn cheese, setting them down before her with shaking hands.
“Thank ye, John,” she said.
He seemed surprised she knew him. But he’d soon realize she knew all the servants by name. After all, being considerate was the hallmark of a proper lady, and there was nothing more considerate than remembering a person’s name.
She spread cheese on an oatcake and took a tiny bite.
“How fares the midwife?” her father asked.
“The midwife?” She took a moment to swallow. And think.
“Aye. Ye said ye rode out to visit her this morn?”
“Och aye.” She’d told him that when he’d asked where she was riding. It had been the first thing she’d thought of. But she hated lying. It was unladylike. And there was always a risk of getting caught. “I must have missed her. Maybe she was deliverin’ a bairn somewhere. Or sleepin’.” Then, to throw him off her scent, she asked, “How was your day?” She took another bite of oatcake.
“Good,” he said proudly. “We got the last o’ the cider into barrels today. We’ll be smokin’ eels o’er the next few days. Then ’twill be near time for the cullin’.”
The oatcake abruptly congealed in her throat. She couldn’t seem to swallow it or reply. She could only nod.
“Not a moment too soon,” he added, shaking his head. “The Boyle lads are up to their usual antics, reivin’ cattle.”
Her heart caught. What if the Boyle brothers stole Hamish? “Do ye think they’ll come after ours?”
“Not if what I heard from their da is true.”
“What did ye hear?”
“He said the lads are lookin’ to catch your gaze, Lady Carenza,” he confided.
“Mine?”
Her eyes widened. The Boyle brothers? Gilbert and Herbert Boyle were a pair of dimwitted bullies who had terrorized her since she was a wee lass. Throwing chestnuts at her. Pulling her braids. Chasing away the birds she tried to tame.
“Don’t fret,” he assured her. “Neither o’ them are fit to kiss the ground ye tread on. But as long as their da thinks they have a chance, they’ll leave our cattle alone.”
She forced a conspiratorial grin to her face. Her father was clever. Too clever. She took a measured sip of ale.
“So ye’ll bring the fold to the close soon?” she asked with casual indifference.
“Aye, in a sennight or so, when the grass is gone.”
She nodded and managed to squeak out, “And the cullin’?”
“Sometime betwixt Samhain and Martinmas.”
She gulped. Young John brought the next course, barley pottage in a rye trencher. But she’d suddenly lost her appetite. She ended up sneaking bites to her favorite hound, Troye, under the table.
There was no time to waste. She couldn’t wait until Cainnech drove the cattle to the close. It was too risky. She had to do her work before they were rounded up.
As Hew expected, his gift of ham for the monastery instantly endeared him to the monks. The next day, as the cook sliced it up for their Sabbath supper, only the prior frowned in disapproval at such excess. The abbot, however, allowed it. He was wise enough to realize Hew’s strategy. After all, a man who filled a monk’s belly might gain his confidence.
Indeed, after supper, Hew engaged several of the monks who were clearing tables in the refectory in what appeared to be casual conversation.
From one, he learned that the silver cross had disappeared sometime in the middle of the night, between vespers and compline.
Another told him the gold chalice had gone missing once before from the sacristy, but had been found in the library and returned. The following week, it was gone, this time for good.
A third volunteered his theory that the chalice was in truth the Holy Grail and that a Templar had come secretly to claim it.
The prior, a particularly ascetic fellow, believed the thefts were a sign from God. A lesson to them all to reject the earthly trappings of wealth. He didn’t offer any ideas, however, about who he thought had done God’s work.
More than one said they’d seen the abbot’s key to the coffer of jewels left in the lock, though none of the jewels had gone missing at those times. The key had been immediately returned to the abbot, who hadn’t realized he’d accidentally left it in the coffer lock.
Most knew nothing about the thefts. But after a succulent supper, thanks to Hew, they were willing to offer what help they could.
At Hew’s request, the prior made a detailed list of all deliveries made to the monastery, along with the names of those who delivered them. Hew meant to question each one.
But the more he heard, the more he was convinced the thief was someone close to the monastery. Someone who had both knowledge and access. Perhaps one of the novices who hadn’t yet embraced the Commandment about stealing.
Despite a full day and a full belly, when Hew settled onto his pallet, he couldn’t sleep. After an hour of shivering in the cold, tossing, turning, and staring at the plaster ceiling, he decided to do some investigating around the monastery.
Armed with his axe, he circled the inside of the perimeter wall. There didn’t seem to be any gaps in the stone. Or loose panels of stained glass in the windows of the church. Or gates in disrepair. No secret passageways were in evidence.
He walked through the moonlit cloister with its central well. The square yard was bordered on the west by the monks’ cells and on the east by the prior’s and abbot’s quarters. To the north was the church. To the south was the refectory.
It was possible that a catapult fired from outside the monastery might launch a thief into the midst of the cloister. Otherwise, it was inaccessible to anyone not living within the walls.
He searched the library, where the missing gold chalice had once been seen. But, located in the heart of the monastery, it was the most secure chamber. And none of its small treasury of books, chained to the walls for safekeeping, had been taken.
The only other building was the infirmary, which was at some distance from the other structures, adjoined by its own tiny chapel and kitchen. Mainly for monks who fell ill, it was also open to a few devout outsiders who were at death’s door. But most hadn’t the strength to walk. Much less steal anything.
Hew’s exploration reinforced his view. The thefts had been accomplished, not by a stranger, but by someone with easy access to the monastery.
Stealing back to his cell across the grass of the cloister, he heard a scuffle along the wall. In one smooth motion, he shrugged the axe off his shoulder and gripped it in both hands before him.
It was probably just a monk on his way to matins. But Hew was not a man who liked to be caught unawares.
Narrowing his eyes in the faint moonlight, he saw a low shadow hobbling awkwardly beside the stone wall. Not a monk. An animal.
He lowered his axe and smiled in self-mockery.
A waddling hedgepig snuffled through the leaves.
“You’re not the thief, are you?” he whispered. The wind rose, making him shiver. “Let me know if you find a warm place to bed down. I may join you.”
The hedgepig never obliged him. So Hew endured another chill and restless night. Nonetheless, he set out for the village early the next morn. Armed with his axe and the list the prior had given him, he trudged down the frosty road.
More than sleep, he could use a decent fire to warm his bones. And the apple-cheeked alewife’s establishment had a cheery enough hearth. For a few pennies, he could break his fast.
By a stroke of luck, when he peered above the doorway of the alehouse, he saw the sign matched a name on his list. The Bell. This was the alewife who supplied the monastery. According to the prior’s list, her son Peter visited twice a week to deliver the ale.
He didn’t have to request an interview with Peter. As soon as he walked in with his axe across his shoulder, the lad, perhaps twelve years old and as apple-cheeked as his mother, rushed up in wide-eyed wonder.
“Can I look at that, sir?” he asked. “Your axe?”
“Peter,” his mother chided, “leave the patrons alone.”
“Is this your lad?” Hew asked.
She nodded.
“I’m happy to show him my axe.” He whispered to Peter, “Let’s sit by the fire where the light is better.”
“I’ve just made oatcakes,” the alewife offered.
“I’ll take a pair then,” he said.
She brought him the oatcakes and an ale while he showed his axe to Peter.
“I like the designs,” Peter said, tracing the carvings along the handle with a finger.
“They’re Viking runes.”
Peter’s eyes widened. “Are ye a Vikin’?”
“My ancestors were,” he said. “What about you? Do you have warrior kin?”
“Nay,” he said. “My da died when I was three.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Peter shrugged. “I don’t remember him. But we do just fine, my ma and me.”
“You help her with the alehouse?”
He straightened with pride. “I do the deliveries.”
“Deliveries,” Hew said, pretending to be surprised. “Where do you deliver?”
“All over. To the hermit at village end. To the monastery. Even,” he confided in a dreamy whisper, “to Lady Carenza herself.”
There was that name again. Carenza.
“Sometimes she gives me a penny,” Peter told him. Then he leaned closer to murmur, “Sometimes she kisses my brow.”
“Peter,” his keen-eared mother scolded. “I’m sure she kisses all the wee lads’ brows. She’s the laird’s daughter. ’Tis her duty.”
For an instant, Hew wished the dutiful Lady Carenza would kiss his brow. Then, deciding that would be a mistake, he cleared his throat.
“You deliver to the monastery, you said?” he said. “That’s where I’m staying.”
“Ye are? Aye. I go every Monday and Thursday.”
“You go into the monastery proper?”
“Nay, the cellarer meets me at the gate after midday Mass.”
The alewife called out to him. “Ale’s ready for Dunlop, Peter.”
“I have to go,” Peter said, scrambling up from the table. “Don’t like to keep Lady Carenza waiting. Maybe I’ll see ye at the monastery?”
Hew nodded. But he’d already ruled out Peter as a suspect. The lad was enterprising, but he didn’t seem like the sort to steal from a monastery.
He’d only polished off one of the warm, chewy oatcakes when patrons began wandering in. The Bell was surprisingly popular for this early in the day. But considering the quality ale and decent fare, it was probably a good way to prepare for a long, hard day of work.
He checked the prior’s list. When the alewife refilled his cup, he asked her about the man who visited the monastery once each season to deliver spices. “Do you know where I could find Absalom the spice merchant?”
“Absalom? When he’s in town, he comes most every day. He should be along any time.”
No sooner did she say the words than a dusky-skinned, black-haired man came through the door in a cloak thickly embroidered at the edges with bright thread.
“That’s him,” she murmured.
Absalom seemed rather richly dressed. Was that thanks to his talent as a spice merchant? Or his dexterity as a thief of religious artifacts? Hew wasn’t sure.
He stood and greeted the man. “Absalom?” he asked.
“Aye.”
“I’m told you deliver spices to the monastery not far from here?”
“That’s right. Kildunan. Four times a year.” He paused to call out to the alewife. “Ale and an oatcake.”
“On its way,” she called back.
“Can you tell me,” Hew asked, “who takes the order?”
“The kitchener comes to the gate.” Then he frowned, eyeing Hew’s axe. “Why? Is there a problem?”
“Nay. ’Tis only…” He drew closer, confiding, “I’m staying there, and the food…” He wrinkled his nose.
Absalom nodded. “All the spices in the world won’t help a bad cook.”
“I was afraid of that,” Hew said, saluting him with an oatcake.
Absalom gave him a nod of farewell, then called out to a man at another table before joining him. “Bernard.”
Bernard. Hew glanced at his list. There was a Bernard who sold parchment to the monastery. Could it be the same man?
He didn’t dare confront Bernard while he was sitting with Absalom. That would be too suspicious. No doubt the alewife was already wondering why this stranger with an axe was asking so many questions.
As he leaned back against the alehouse wall, he closed his eyes briefly, waiting for Bernard to leave. By the time he started awake, the man was gone.
“Did ye have a nice wee nap?” the alewife teased.
Shite. How had he drifted off? And how long had he been asleep?
“Can ye tell me where the parchment shop is?” he asked.
“At the far end o’ the village,” she said, adding pointedly, “downwind.”
He thanked her, snatched his plaid, and hurried out the door.
He understood what she meant when he reached the end of the lane and entered Bernard’s shop. The air was heavy with the stench of greasy sheepskin.
The proprietor furrowed his bushy brown brows at him. “Aren’t ye the fellow who was snorin’ at The Bell?”
Snoring? Hew didn’t snore. At least he didn’t think he snored. It was hard to know, since he was asleep.
“I was at The Bell, aye.”
“Huh.” He waved his arm at the goods stacked on shelves. “Ye need parchment?”
“Nay.”
Bernard licked his lips and eyed his axe. “Then what are ye here for?”
“A few questions.”
Bernard’s gaze flitted nervously to the door. “Is this about the laird’s daughter?” he blurted. “I only sold her parchment. I swear. If anyone said ’twas anythin’ else…”
Hew lifted his brows. Was everyone entangled with Lady Carenza? “Nay.”
“Oh.” Bernard’s shoulders dropped in relief. “What is it then?”
“The local prior told me you provide parchment to the monastery.”
“Aye.”
“You take it there yourself?”
“I do the delivery, aye.”
“Directly to the prior?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes the prior. Sometimes a monk.”
“You go to the scriptorium?”
He shook his head. “They meet me at the gate. But why do ye want to know all this?”
“I’m staying at the monastery, trying to make myself useful,” he invented. “If I can save you the trouble of carting your wares to the monastery…”
“’Tis no trouble,” Bernard assured him, adding quietly in confidence, “and just so ye know, the cost is the same, whether I deliver it or not. I’m already givin’ the abbot a good price.” He glanced at Hew’s weapon again. “Ask anyone.”
“Of course.” Hew nodded. “Thank you for your time.”
Bernard seemed like an untrustworthy sort. But it was probably true he’d given the abbot a good price. A man as paranoid as Bernard would likely try to buy his way into heaven.
So far, Hew was not convinced any of the vendors were guilty of the thefts. None of them were in the habit of entering the monastery. But interviewing everyone on the prior’s list was the only way to eliminate suspects.
Mabel the cloth merchant only delivered goods to the monastery twice a year. She was a pious woman who walked with a crutch and considered the trip a pilgrimage of sorts. Hew mentally eliminated her.
The next two frequent visitors to the monastery were Brother Cathal, who collected the alms from Kildunan to distribute to the poor, and Father James, who oversaw the monastery with a monthly inspection. They would naturally be given free access to the monastery. Their presence in the most private chambers would never arouse suspicion. Indeed, Hew was rather surprised the prior had put them on the list at all.
Still, logistically, they were likely suspects. And Hew wanted no loose threads. Not only did they have access. They might have worked as a team, which would have made the thefts easier. And the fact that they both traveled widely, collecting alms and making inspections at various monasteries, meant they could hide their plunder almost anywhere.
They weren’t in the village at present. A servant at the church said they had gone together to see the construction of the new monastery at Kilwinning.
That aroused Hew’s suspicions even more. He began to wonder if Kildunan wasn’t the only monastery to have treasures go missing. If all the monks were as secretive about the loss of valuables as the abbot of Kildunan was, there might well be serial robberies taking place.
As he left the church, Hew spotted the butcher shop where he’d purchased the ham. The village butcher was the last entry on his list.
When he swung open the door of the shop, the butcher waved his bloody hand in greeting.
“Ye again,” he said with a wink. “Did ye finish off the ham already?”
Hew laughed. “Not quite. I’ve come to ask you a few questions.”
“Questions?”
“About your deliveries to the monastery.”
“Ah, ye mean Alan’s deliveries to the monastery.”
“Alan?”
He beamed. “My son. Ten years old, and he can already wield a butcher knife as fast as Sir Gellir o’ Rivenloch can wield a sword.”
Hew smirked. He wasn’t going to tell the man that Sir Gellir of Rivenloch was his cousin. His mother was right. Gellir was known everywhere. “Is your son here?”
“In the back.” He turned and yelled, “Alan!”
The stout lad looked like a smaller version of his father as he came out in a butcher’s blood-smeared apron. “Aye, Da?”
“This fellow wants to speak with ye.”
“Me?” he squeaked.
“You take meat to the monastery every fortnight, aye?” Hew asked.
“That’s right.” He spotted Hew’s axe. “I didn’t miss a delivery, did I?”
“Nay, nay. I’m just wondering, when you deliver that meat, do you take it into the kitchens?”
“Och nay,” he said, very gravely. “I’m not allowed inside. I give it to the monk.”
“What monk?”
He furrowed his brows in deep thought. “The one in the…brown robe?”
“I see.” Hew’s lips twitched as he repressed a smile. Any lad who took his trade so seriously was an unlikely suspect. “Well, Alan, apprentice butcher, what would you recommend I purchase for…” He peered into his purse. “Two pence?”
Alan screwed up his face, considering. “A brace o’ coneys?”
His father said, “We sold the last to Lady Carenza, remember?”
“Och aye,” Alan gushed, turning bright scarlet. “I for-, forgot.”
Hew frowned. Had the lady kissed him on the brow as well? Evidently she had the power to reduce wee lads to stammering fools.
“Go on, son,” the butcher nudged.
Recovering from his fluster, Alan suggested, “How about a leg o’ mutton?” He glanced over his shoulder to check that with his father, who nodded his approval.
“Good,” Hew said.
Carrying the wrapped meat over one shoulder and his axe over the other, Hew yawned as he strode back up the street. He figured he’d arrive at the monastery after midday Mass and before the first meal of the day. So he’d have to decide whether he wanted to eat or sleep. At the moment, despite his earlier nap, sleep was winning.
He wasn’t sure the prior would approve of the sudden increase of meat in the monks’ diet. But a “rampaging Viking” like Hew had to eat well. Especially if he was required to travel from monastery to monastery to continue his investigation. Besides, he doubted the monks would complain.