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.