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.