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.