Laird of Flint: A Forbidden Love Scottish Medieval Romance Adventure (The Warrior Lairds of Rivenloc

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Carenza was simultaneously pleased and ashamed that the ragpicker in the village believed her story. It was an outright lie, after all. Carenza had no intention of making clothing for the poor with the scraps of wool and linen she’d purchased from him.

She meant to make a disguise for herself. Something dark. Warm. Bulky. Something that would render her unrecognizable.

She quickly found what she needed. The shopkeeper tied it into a parcel. When she exited the shop, Symon was across the lane, chatting with a friend. Her father had insisted she bring the servant along for safety.

The street was busy now. Everyone knew the laird’s daughter, of course, and they all paid their respects. Vendors bobbed their heads as they carried parcels here and there. Young lads gaped as they scurried past, making deliveries and fetching coffyns for their masters’ dinner. Women paused to smile and nod at her as they shopped, counting out coins for autumn apples and hard cheese and fresh fish. Carts rolled past, brimming with hay or stacked with barrels, and their drivers tipped their caps to her. She beamed at all of them.

Then she stepped into the road. All at once, a man rushed by her so closely and in such haste, she felt the breeze of his passing.

With a tiny squeak, she recoiled.

“Sorry,” he muttered, continuing on.

She frowned. The rude oaf didn’t even bother to turn around to make sure she was unharmed. He just kept taking gigantic strides down the middle of the road, as if he owned it.

Who was he anyway? She knew everyone in the village, and she didn’t recognize his tree-like height, his ox-wide back, or his tawny gold hair.

And that axe. Who carried a fierce battleaxe over his shoulder like that? He looked like a marauding Norseman.

He had something else over his other shoulder. Something round, wrapped in waxed cloth.

She smirked. Maybe it was a head. Aye, that was it. The marauding Norseman had cut off someone’s head and was carrying it back to his longboat.

Then, shaking off her silly wandering thoughts, she continued carefully across the road. There was much to do and no time to waste. She couldn’t afford to be distracted by marauding Norsemen.

“I’m ready to return now,” she told Symon. She’d already purchased a brace of coneys, a dozen beeswax candles, lavender bath oil, and a pair of hair ribbons, mostly for cover.

He tied her last parcel onto his horse and helped her onto Leannan.

Unfortunately, as they rode out of the village and onto the main road, she discovered they were traveling along the same route as the Viking.

When she drew up within sight of the striding giant, she was tempted to seek revenge, to terrorize him by spurring her horse and grazing past him at a gallop. But she resisted the urge.

He looked quite formidable, even from the back. The cloth of his leine strained around his bulky arms, outlining each impressive muscle. The hand gripping the parcel on his shoulder looked massive. His hair gleamed like gold over broad shoulders that funneled down to narrow hips. A leather belt hung low across his buttocks, and it shifted with each long and confident stride.

She told herself he probably had the face of a monster. Scarred from battle. Fierce with berserker rage. Bloody from the beheading he’d just done.

But she’d never know. After all, it was unladylike to gawk at strange men.

So she rode past in silence, fixing her eyes on the road before her and focusing her mind on the daunting challenge ahead.

When Hew returned to the refectory with the leg of mutton, he expected a glare of disapproval from the prior. But the prior was engaged elsewhere. The abbot had the meat whisked away to the kitchens for later use.

The meal was silent as usual. But that was fine with Hew. He’d rather not discuss the fine points of his investigation with the abbot, since his two most likely suspects so far were members of the church.

Perhaps he would mention his suspicions to the prior. After all, the prior was the one who had put their names on the list in the first place.

“Where is the prior?” he murmured to the monk beside him after they’d finished eating.

“In the infirmary.”

“Is he ill?”

“Nay. He’s lookin’ after a layman.”

“A layman?”

The monk nodded and leaned closer to whisper, “A local merchant. The physician’s been summoned. But they’re fairly certain he’ll need last rites soon.”

Hew nodded. That was one of the advantages of making generous donations to a monastery. When a wealthy man was about to die, he could call in favors from the church and live out his days in relative comfort. The infirmary had a dozen soft beds. A warm hearth. Better food than the monks got. Servants to see to a dying man’s every need. And holy men to look after the deceased’s soul.

It was a good arrangement.

“Oh,” Hew suddenly remembered, “do you happen to know what day the almoner turns over donations to Brother Cathal?”

“Thursdays.”

“And when does Father James visit?”

“He ne’er announces his arrival. Just shows up.”

That made sense. Hew’s mother never announced inspections of the armory either. It kept men honest.

Hew drank the last of his ale. Then he stifled a yawn. The lack of sleep last night and a hearty extra meal today had caught up with him. Since Brother Cathal wouldn’t come by for another few days, there was not much else he could do. He might as well take a long, leisurely nap.

In his cell, he’d just settled his head into the recess he’d punched into the pallet when his eyes flew open.

The physician.

The prior hadn’t put the physician on the list.

It was probably just an oversight, not an omission. After all, a physician would only be needed when someone was seriously ill. He would visit the infirmary, which adjoined the monastery.

The monk had told him the prior had summoned the physician. So where had he come from? And could he have something to do with the missing valuables?

Hew sat up. He wasn’t going to be able to sleep now. Not with that new possibility nagging at his brain.

Emerging from his cell into the cloister, he cast his gaze in the direction of the infirmary. It was tempting to simply charge into the building and start questioning the physician.

But a man was dying there. And the infirmary was isolated for a reason. Peace and quiet.

To be fair, the whole monastery seemed peaceful and quiet to Hew. Especially compared to the lively atmosphere at Rivenloch. But he supposed interrogating a man in the infirmary would be frowned upon.

When Hew saw several of the more seasoned monks begin to file past, heading toward the infirmary, he figured the dying man’s time was nigh.

Would they send the physician home soon? And where was home?

He cornered one of the younger monks in the library. “The physician in the infirmary. Do you know who he is?”

“The physician? Peris.”

“Where does he come from, do you know?”

“I don’t. He only comes when someone’s about to…” The monk gulped, as if saying the words aloud might make it so.

“Who would know?”

“The abbot?”

Hew was fairly certain the abbot was seeing to the dying man as well, since all of the senior monks seemed to be gathering at the infirmary.

He supposed he’d just have to wait until the man expired.

Hours passed. He was served a silent dinner of thin mutton pottage. The sun sank in a gloomy sky. The cloud-ringed moon emerged. Still no one returned.

He retired to his cell and stared at the plaster ceiling, dimly illuminated by the filtered moonlight.

He was glad he was a warrior. Warriors didn’t suffer through lingering death watches or questionable cures. They went out in a blaze of glory.

If Hew had his way, he would never have need of a physician.

Maybe to mend his wounded heart, he corrected. That was something that wouldn’t heal on its own.

He drifted off, dreaming of all the women he’d loved and lost.

Carenza rubbed her aching eyes and scooted her stool closer to the hearth. It was difficult to stitch late at night by firelight. But she didn’t have a choice. She couldn’t exactly piece together a disguise by daylight in front of witnesses.

Fortunately, no one would be inspecting her handiwork. It was truly rushed and haphazard. Her stitches were crooked and uneven, and she didn’t bother to finish any of the seams.

But it only had to last one night. Afterwards, she’d rip it apart into unrecognizable rags.

Besides, its rustic quality made it a better disguise. No one would suspect the stout beggar hobbling along the hill in tatters was in truth the laird’s daughter.

She tied one final knot in the garment and snipped the thread with scissors. Then she shook out the cloth and stood to hold it up to her waist.

A few nights hence, she’d be in a hurry to dress. She needed to try everything on before then.

She’d never worn men’s trews before. They were surprisingly comfortable. The waist was a bit baggy. So she dug through her chest to find a leather belt to hold them up.

Over her leine, she slipped the voluminous patchwork shirt she’d sewn. The garment, padded in the shoulders and at the front to add bulk, fell to her knees.

She pulled up the thick woolen socks she’d borrowed from her father’s winter chest.

Then she let out a jagged breath. If her da could see her now, he would lock her in her room and throw away the key.

She’d procured a pair of sturdy boots from the stable lad. She’d told him she meant to have them repaired and cleaned for him. Which she would. After she used them to tramp through the muddy hills.

But when she picked up the left boot, it was occupied.

“Oh!” she cried. “Blancmange, what are ye doin’ in there?”

She gently dumped the wee hedgepig out of the boot onto the floor.

“Ye can’t make a nest in that.”

Undaunted, Blancmange waddled toward the second boot.

“Nor there either,” she said, picking it up out of the way.

As she watched the hedgepig continue on toward her discarded slipper, she felt a tingling at the back of her neck.

They weren’t alone. She was being watched.

Sliding her gaze warily to the left, she glimpsed a second spiny beast huddled on her bed, regarding her with beady eyes.

“Pokerounce,” she scolded in a whisper, “ye’re not allowed on the bed, and ye know it.”

She picked up the wriggling hedgepig and placed her on the floor next to her sister.

“Ye two are naughty wee lasses tonight.”

Then she smirked. They weren’t the only ones.

She clucked her tongue at the adorable pair of hedgepigs. She’d rescued them last spring when their mother had been killed by a hound.

Lately they’d had a strong nesting instinct that had led them to snuggle in her skirts, hide in the peat pile on the hearth, and burrow into her pallet. She supposed she’d have to do something about that soon.

Meanwhile, she plucked out the vials of bath oils from her willow basket and propped the basket upside down in the corner for them. They immediately toddled over and made themselves at home within the makeshift nest.

The boots proved roomy but serviceable. She snatched up the hood she’d fashioned out of brown scraps and pulled it over her head. It was perfect. Deep enough to both warm her ears and keep her face hidden under the cold, bright moon.

When she held her mirror out at arm’s length, a wave of shame washed over her again. She looked nothing like the daughter her father was so proud of.

The woman in the reflection was someone even Carenza hardly recognized. A wayward, willful, disobedient scruff of a lass who was about to embark on a mission that was disgraceful. Dishonorable. Deceitful. And dangerous.

When Hew awoke the next morn, it was over.

The man had died in the middle of the night. The abbot had delivered last rites. The monks had prepared the body. And the physician had gone home.

At the midday meal, Hew was finally able to ask the bleary-eyed abbot where the physician came from.

“Peris? Dunlop Castle,” the abbot replied. “He’s the laird’s own physician.”

Dunlop again.

“Why do ye ask?” the prior said.

“The physician wasn’t on your list,” Hew pointed out.

The prior gave him a humorless smile. “I didn’t feel it necessary to include him. He’s here only on occasion.”

“Of course. Still, we must leave no stone unturned in the pursuit of justice.”

“O’ course.”

“I’ll need to make a visit to Dunlop,” Hew decided, “to speak with him.”

“He’s likely exhausted,” the prior argued. “He was up all night, carin’ for a dyin’ man.”

“He’s right,” the abbot agreed, which pleased the prior, until he added, “But ’tis a few hours walk, and ye could go later today.”

“I’ll go with him,” the prior volunteered. “I can make introductions.”

The abbot’s brow creased. “I may need ye here. We still have the burial to complete.”

“The burial will be on the morrow, aye?” the prior reminded him.

“Och. Aye.” The abbot rubbed at his sleepy eyes. “I’ve lost track o’ the days.”

“Besides,” the prior said, “I can take Dunlop a jar o’ the honey he likes so well.”

The abbot waved his approval.

Hew was not happy with that decision. He’d hoped to make the journey alone.

As expected, the dour prior proved poor company. The instant they passed through the gate, ’twas as if the prior was no longer bound by the silence of the monastery. He began to chatter incessantly, preparing Hew to meet the physician as if he were going to meet the Pope.

He warned Hew that Peris was a nervous man who didn’t like to be questioned about his methods. He said that a death was always traumatic for a physician, so he should not be judged by his fragility today. He stressed that the monastery appreciated the physician’s services and wanted to keep them.

To make matters worse, the prior’s sandal-shod shuffle lengthened the journey. What Hew could have covered in an hour of long strides took twice as long at the prior’s slow pace.

But as long as the prior had insisted on accompanying him, Hew supposed he should make good use of the time.

“Tell me what you know about Brother Cathal.”

“Brother Cathal? He collects the alms once a week, on Thursday, and distributes them to the poor.”

“Where does he go to collect them?”

“The chapter house.”

“So he goes within the monastery walls?”

“Aye, but…” The prior halted on the road and drew his brows together. “Ye don’t think Brother Cathal is the thief?”

“He has access.”

The prior looked troubled. He stroked his chin thoughtfully and resumed walking. “Brother Cathal.” He shook his head. “’Tis possible, but…”

“Did any of the thefts occur on Thursdays?”

“They may have. ’Tis hard to say. Sometimes the objects aren’t missed for days.” The prior mulled over the idea for a moment. Then he said, “Ye don’t suppose he’s been stealin’ the alms as well?”

Hew shrugged.

“Sweet Mary,” the prior said, “if he’s been stealin’ alms all this time…” He let out a pained sigh. “Brother Cathal’s been collectin’ from Kildunan for two years.”

Hew thought the prior was getting ahead of things. Brother Cathal’s guilt hadn’t been established. Access didn’t prove the crime.

“What about Father James?” Hew asked.

“Father James?”

“He was on your list as well.”

The prior straightened indignantly. “Father James is beyond reproach. I only put him on the list because he makes regular visits to the monastery.”

“Random visits, not regular visits.”

“Well, aye. But he comes every month.”

“And what is his access?”

“He has access to all o’ Kildunan,” the prior scoffed. “As he should. After all, he’s in charge o’ the monastery.”

“Have any of the valuables gone missing after his inspections?”

The prior gasped at the suggestion. “Are ye insinuatin’—”

“I mean no offense. But you can’t flush out quarry without beating about the bushes.”

The prior huffed at that. Then he said in hushed tones, “Ye mustn’t let Father James know ye’re ‘beatin’ about the bushes.’ The abbot has made it clear. The father is not to be alerted to the thefts. Not yet.” He added sharply, “Especially since ye’re accusin’ him o’ bein’ the thief.”

“I’m not accusing him. I’m only crossing the names off your list,” Hew pointed out.

The prior muttered something under his breath.

“Tell me this,” Hew said. “Are there times when Father James and Brother Cathal come to Kildunan together?”

“Aye. Sometimes. Wait. Ye don’t think…”

Hew filled in the possibility. “They could be working together.”

He expected an outburst of disbelief from the prior. But there was none. To Hew’s surprise, the prior’s voice was distraught as he murmured, “As much as I don’t want to believe it, ye may be right. No one else has the access they do. No one would question their goin’ into the church. Or the library. Or the cloister.”

Hew suddenly felt sorry for the prior. The possibility that Father James, a man revered by the monks, might be a common thief was obviously upsetting to a man who lived and breathed his faith.

He was about to offer a morsel of compassion when the prior pointed and announced, “Ah. There ’tis.”

Through the thinning trees, Hew glimpsed a castle strategically perched atop a hill. It was of modest size, compared to Rivenloch. But its sandstone walls gleamed golden. Proud banners topped each corner of the keep, snapping crisply in the breeze. And dozens of figures dotted the hillside, as busy as ants. The castle was small, but it seemed efficient and well-maintained. Dunlop likely owned much of the land surrounding it as well.

At the barbican, the guard waved the prior through the gate, though he gave Hew and his axe a dubious scowl. Indeed, once they were in the courtyard, several clanfolk gave Hew a dubious scowl. Women with children also gave him a wide berth.

The prior plunged ahead to address a pair of men-at-arms standing beside the keep. “Do ye know where Dunlop is?”

“Inside,” one of them said, nodding toward the great hall.

“Come,” the prior said to Hew. “I’ll introduce ye. While ye’re makin’ the laird’s acquaintance, I’ll find out where Peris has gone.”

The great hall was packed with people. Maidservants wielded besoms, polished tables, and carried trays of oatcakes. Lads placed candles in sconces, wrangled loose hound pups, and poked at the coals on the hearth. Wee children played with wooden dolls. Noblewomen giggled over them. Warriors drank ale by the fire.

“There he is,” the prior said, nodding toward the far stairs.

Hew followed his gaze. A middle-aged nobleman towered several inches above the rest of his clanfolk. He was pleasant-looking, with a neatly trimmed black beard and fine clothing, as crisp and well-maintained as his castle. Though he wasn’t built like a warrior, he looked confident and calm. It was clear he was the leader of this clan.

Then Hew’s eyes fell to the young maid on his arm.

Suddenly he couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

She was The Most Beautiful Woman He Had Ever Seen in His Entire Life.