Chapter 6
As a youth, Hew always relished the glorious rites held at Rivenloch whenever a noble warrior perished in battle.
Because the clan was comprised of Viking invaders, Norman knights, Scottish warriors, and one intrepid assassin from the Orient, he was never certain whether the deceased was headed to heaven, hell, or Valhalla.
Any ceremony on Rivenloch land was bound to be a melding of Viking tradition, pagan superstition, and Christian doctrine.
But the event was invariably celebrated with fire and feasting, singing and storytelling.
So it was a disappointment to learn that burying the deceased layman at Kildunan involved none of these. Indeed, the ceremony stipulated even more decorum and prayer, less food and drink.
The dead man had no living kin. Still, the monks gave him a lengthy and somber service in the church. The man had apparently donated enough wealth to earn him a grave within the monastery walls.
Halfway through a day of burning candles and monotonous chants, Hew had had enough. His belly was growling. And the litany of prayers made him wonder if the monks intended to recite the entire Bible.
But then the elusive Father James made a surprise appearance.
At his arrival, the abbot fawned over the elderly priest. He welcomed him into the church and remarked on what a blessing it was to the deceased to have him present.
Hew studied the man. White-haired and wizened, there was a spark of intelligence in his snapping eyes. Withered he might be, but he missed nothing. His gaze immediately settled on Hew, and Hew could almost hear his thought… What is he doing here?
Just as quickly, the priest turned his attention back to the matter at hand. He blessed the body and began intoning words of prayer as monks wafted incense over the shroud.
Hew used the opportunity to sink back into the shadows and observe.
Could Father James be the thief?
Was he devout or devious?
Did his holy vestments hide a black heart?
Was his practiced genuflection an indication of his light-fingered habits?
Suspicion must have shown in Hew’s furrowed brow, for beyond Father James, the prior glared pointedly back at him, wordlessly reminding him not to let on that anything was amiss.
He supposed that was wise. A watched outlaw was always careful. Hew needed the thief to think he was safe. Overconfident robbers made mistakes.
The priest didn’t stay long, and it seemed neither the time nor place to inquire about his visits to Kildunan.
But Father James did speak at length to the abbot and the prior.
And once or twice he glanced in Hew’s direction.
Clearly, he wished to know who the stranger at the monastery was.
Hew wondered what they were telling him.
According to the prior, when a monk died at Kildunan, he was buried in an unmarked grave in the orchard.
But there was a special graveyard behind the orchard for notable guests.
Two rows of small gravestones were embedded into the sod there like crooked teeth.
At one end was a new hole gouged into the earth where the latest body would be buried.
By late afternoon, the rites were over. The monks dispersed from the grave until only the prior and he remained.
“Well?” the prior asked with a smirk, raising one judgmental brow.
Hew frowned. “What?”
“Ye can’t possibly think Father James is…” He glanced cautiously about the orchard for stragglers. “Ye know.”
“The thief?”
The prior winced. He obviously didn’t want to speak the words aloud. “Aye.”
Hew wasn’t ready to say. “I’m not certain yet.”
The prior thinned his lips in disapproval.
Hew had a question of his own. “What did you tell him about me?”
“Just that ye were visitin’ the monastery.”
“You didn’t tell him I was from Rivenloch?”
“I did not.”
“Good.”
“The abbot, however, might have mentioned it.”
Hew growled.
Bloody hell. Loose-lipped monks would be the death of him. Soon all of Scotland would know a warrior of Rivenloch was hiding at Kildunan. And when the king found out, he’d no doubt come running with a betrothal. A betrothal between Hew and some milksop daughter of an English lord.
Hew wanted to punch something. But he’d resist the urge.
He didn’t want to alarm the prior. He needed the man’s trust and cooperation.
The sooner he could get it, the sooner he could solve the crime.
The sooner he could solve the crime, the sooner he could leave this purgatory and find a safer place to hide.
Hopefully with his cousin Gellir at Darragh.
So he reduced his temper to a low simmer. “Brother Cathal comes on the morrow, aye?”
“Aye.”
“I’ll want to question him.”
“O’ course.”
As he left to find something to eat, he called back over his shoulder, “And henceforth, I wish to be introduced simply as Hew.”
Since he’d had little to eat all day, Hew treated himself to double portions of supper, ignoring the scowls of scorn from the prior.
Afterwards, he borrowed the monastery’s rarely used wooden tub, filling it from the well.
Then he coaxed the cook to heat a cauldron of cinnamon-infused water for him to add to the tub.
An hour later, he sank into his first decent bath in a fortnight and scrubbed off the cloying scent of incense and the lingering stench of death.
The steaming, fragrant water lulled him to drowsiness. He bathed, dried off, and cracked open the shutters to let in the fresh evening air. Then he fell into bed, asleep almost before his head hit the pallet.
Sometime in the middle of the night, through the gap in the shutters, a shadow falling across the full moon abruptly awakened him.
His eyes flew open. But he lay motionless, listening.
Were those footfalls?
He wrapped his fingers around his axe on the floor beside him and rose without a sound.
Peering between the shutters, he spied a dark figure stealing across the cloister.
Then he mouthed a silent curse. When he’d gone to bed, he’d assumed he was done investigating for the night. It appeared he’d assumed wrong. He needed to find out who the mysterious figure was and what he was up to. But first he had to get dressed. Quickly.
He wrenched his leine over his head and pulled up his trews, cursing as he struggled to tie the points.
He shoved his feet into his boots. Finally, whirling his plaid over his shoulders, he crept out of his cell.
Thankfully, the moon was bright enough to follow the path of bent grass where the man had trod. It led straight to the monastery gate.
Hew gripped his axe tighter as he cautiously nudged open the unlocked gate. Who else but an outlaw would steal out of a monastery in the middle of the night?
He spotted the figure far in the distance on the westward road. The man had wasted no time fleeing Kildunan. And he was making haste now. Hew’s delay meant the outlaw was not much more than a faraway speck.
But that was good. It was best that Hew keep his distance and make sure the man didn’t know he was being followed.
An hour later, he was still headed west. In the direction of Dunlop Castle. And Hew began to have doubts about the man and his motives.
What if the figure was not a thief, but the physician returning to Dunlop?
What if he’d only arrived in the middle of the night because someone in the monastery had taken ill?
What if his visit hadn’t been for a robbery, but a mission of mercy?
The man crested the grassy hill before the castle. Hew continued his pursuit, staying close to the trees. When he ran out of trees at the clearing, he stopped to watch.
The barbican gates of Dunlop would open for either the physician or a man of God. As Hew expected, the man swiftly disappeared within the castle walls.
Axe-wielding Hew, however, was not likely to be welcomed by the guard.
Sooner or later, if he’d come from monastery, the mysterious visitor would need to return. Likely before dawn.
Hew settled down onto the hard ground to wait.
For Carenza, the full moon and the cloudless sky were both a blessing and a curse.
The light would help her find her way across the courtyard, out of the castle, and over the hills.
It would also leave her visible—and vulnerable—to anyone else who happened to venture forth on the clear, crisp night.
But too much misgiving spawned cowardice. And Carenza was not a coward. Besides, she’d gone too far to turn back now.
Still, before she committed to the challenging journey, she had to finish one less complicated task.
Entering the shadowy garden, she crouched between the apple trees, juggling the pair of squirming hedgepigs in her hands.
“Winter’s comin’,” she explained in a whisper, “and I can’t hide ye in my chamber anymore. Ye’ve got to go on now and make your own cozy nests.”
She set Blancmange and Pokerounce down in the soft mulch, just a few feet away from the garden wall, where she’d left a jumbled stash of willow twigs. To her simultaneous dismay and relief, they toddled off without a backward glance, eager to investigate.
Letting her animal wards go was always bittersweet. But Carenza was under no illusions. They were not hers to own. None of them were.
As she watched them waddle away, she felt a twinge of envy. They were on their own now. Free.
The only way Carenza could be free to roam where she willed was if she did it behind her father’s back. Which was why she’d been reduced to sneaking out like this in the middle of the night.
She understood his protectiveness. He didn’t want to lose her.
He needed her to be his adoring daughter.
To bring him light and laughter when the world grew too dark.
To be the dutiful lass who fulfilled all his hopes and expectations.
The compliant young lady he would one day surrender to another man.
A man to whom she’d become an adoring wife.
She would always be some man’s pet, she supposed. Such was the fate of a laird’s daughter.
Still, she longed for more.