Chapter 3
Ale and Scripture
The Drunken Tabby was pretty quiet at that time of day.
Few men could spare the time to go for a pint of anything at midday, and certainly no women had the time.
The owner of the Tabby, a fat, short man and his fat, short wife—they looked almost like twins, but had the happiest marriage of anyone Brendan knew—was one of the few innkeepers who allowed women past his doors.
It probably had something to do with the pub’s proximity to St. Deborah’s. The Abbess’ keen eye reached everywhere, even here, and some of the nuns did like a drink.
“Another?” Ned asked, grinning at Brendan and nodding at his empty tankard.
“Aye, another.”
“Just finished yer rounds at St. Deb’s, I imagine?”
“Aye, I have.”
Brendan was never particularly chatty. It was a trait he’d picked up during his soldiering days, and long days and nights of managing the farm by himself had gotten him deeper into the habit of silence.
Not that Ned minded—he generally just talked on and on, not caring if Brendan listened or not.
Ned’s wife, Annie, was silent as the grave, which was probably why the two got on so well. One talked, one listened.
“Any news from the Priory?” Ned asked, a couple of anecdotes later.
Brendan hesitated. The image of the lass, the freckled red-head, popped into his mind.
He’d been thinking about her all day, much to his chagrin.
He knew already that he was attracted to her, which was a fatal mistake.
When he’d first seen her, weary and damp and frightened, standing at the bottom of the hayloft ladder, he’d wanted nothing so much as to wrap his arms around her and keep her safe.
The feeling had been sudden and more than a little shocking.
It wasn’t the first time that Brendan had seen one of the smaller, more vulnerable convent girls and wanted to protect her.
After all, virtually every woman in the Priory had some sort of troublesome past, something that had driven her there.
But he’d never felt the sharp, insistent pull of attraction towards them, not like he had towards Freya.
He was unlikely to see her again, of course, if she’d disappeared into the convent, and anyway he couldn’t consider a relationship with anybody. Not now.
A relationship couldn’t be built on lies, and that was all he had to offer. Lies, trauma, and deceit. Whatever was chasing the woman, it wasn’t good, and she would do better to steer clear of men like him.
No, it was better for everybody if he stayed by himself.
Alone, he could handle his demons himself, and concentrate on doing some good.
Doing anything, really, to undo what he’d already done in his life.
The past could never be changed, but the present?
Well, he had control over that. He could do real good in the future, if he was careful and lived a strict, isolated life. Marriage did not feature in his plans.
It didn’t matter if he was lonely. He deserved loneliness.
“No, nothing new,” he heard himself say, swigging his new pint.
There was no way Ned would have left it at that, and the conversation would have gone for a good while longer, if the door hadn’t swung open at that moment.
Three men stood there, hands on their hips, surveying the occupants with barely concealed distaste.
To nobody’s surprise, they wore Grahame tartans.
“What a load of lazy ingrates,” the lead man snorted. “Barkeep, how about a couple of pints for some actual hardworking men? Soldiers, no less!”
Ned’s mouth pressed into a thin, angry line.
“Aye, lad,” he said, his tone carefully mild. “I’ll fetch it for ye now.”
“And pies, too, if ye have them. Quick as ye like, and the gravy better be hot!”
Ned said nothing. He poured out three pints, set them on the counter, then hurried through the door which led to the kitchen. Brendan stared down into his mostly full pint of ale, and wondered if it would look bad if he left it altogether and just walked out.
Too late.
The lead man came swaggering up to Brendan—who was the only man sitting at the bar—and draped an arm over his shoulder.
“Ought to get yourself a job, mate.”
Brendan clenched his jaw. “I have a job. This is lunch.”
“Uh-huh. Sure it is. Say, we’re looking for a wee lassie—a runaway.
It’s a sad story, isn’t it, lads? A stupid, empty-headed girl, ungrateful.
Had a fine match lined up for her. She was going to marry our Laird Grahame, can ye believe it?
And then she ran off. Or maybe kidnapped.
I suppose if the Laird wants to marry her anyway, he’ll say she was kidnapped.
Then we’ll be after somebody to blame, ha-ha. Name of Freya McInnes.”
Brendan’s hand tightened imperceptibly around the tankard.
Of course. Everybody had heard about Laird Grahame’s intended marriage, forming an alliance between their clan and the McInnes Clan.
The news about his bride-to-be mysteriously disappearing must have flown through the towns almost as quickly.
If the Grahame soldiers were here already, that was a bad sign.
A sign that they’d tracked her. Did she know how close they were?
Stay quiet, he warned himself. Don’t attract attention. It’s not yer business.
Almost as soon as he formulated the thought, Brendan realized with a sinking heart that it was his business. She’d gone to the convent, and might well be traced there.
Kidnapped. They’d say she was kidnapped by an order of troublesome nuns.
That would kill two birds with one stone.
It would allow Laird Grahame to brush past the humiliation of having a woman run away rather than marry him, and it would rid him of a particularly troublesome gaggle of nuns into the bargain.
I’ll have to warn them. The Abbess needs to hear about this.
“I don’t know anyone by that name.”
The man tilted his head. “Ye sure? She’s a wee, pretty thing. I saw her myself, one day in the Keep. Short, slim, red-headed, beautiful. Shame about her freckles, of course. Seen anyone like that?”
“Not that I can think of.”
The man stared at him for a minute or two longer, then seemingly decided that Brendan was too dull to persecute. Ned appeared from the kitchen with a tray of steaming pies, and the soldiers’ attention was distracted. Once they were served, Ned came hurrying up to Brendan.
“I don’t want trouble, lad,” he whispered. “I know ye can be a bit punchy if yer temper’s up.”
“I’m not a fool enough to punch a Grahame soldier,” Brendan replied.
So long as they don’t recognize me, of course.
He didn’t say the last part out loud.
“Just be careful, aye?”
“I just want to listen in. In case… Well, in case.”
Ned caught his eye, and nodded.
In case, they talk about St. Deborah’s.
Even if I did want to give up Freya McInnes to the Grahames, I wouldn’t do it. Couldn’t do it, not without putting the convent in danger. What would this town be without them?
On cue, one of the men spoke up, waving Ned over.
“I heard,” he said, already slurring his words, although he’d barely gotten to the bottom of one tankard. “There’s a wee convent near here that lets women do book learning. Is that true? I never credited it, myself.”
“It’s not natural,” another man agreed. “My wife never learned to read, and neither will any of my daughters. What would they need it for?”
There was a general murmuring of agreement.
“If a woman wants to read, that’s the business of her husband or father,” the third man reasoned. “But if she’s going about encouraging others to do it… Well, what’s the use of putting ideas in their heads? Waste o’ time. Waste o’ teaching.”
“It can’t be true,” the first man said. “Laird Grahame would have put a stop to it by now. This place might be just on the borders of Grahame land, but still. Why would he not just close the place down?”
“What if the nuns wouldn’t go?” another man, the youngest, asked.
The first two men exchanged glances.
“They’d be made to go,” the first man said at last.
All three of them glanced at Ned.
“Well? Is it true?”
Ned swallowed hard, a bead of sweat trickling down his round face. “Well, I-I don’t rightly know, lads.”
“Ye must know!”
The first man narrowed his eyes. “Not protecting them, are ye? I hate how these ugly little towns band together over things like this.”
Ned—who could not lie to save his life—threw a pleading look at Brendan.
Sighing, Brendan drained his tankard and turned to face the men.
“Give him a break, lads,” he said bluntly. “How could he know what goes on in there?”
The first man sneered. “Why would he not?”
Brendan held out his arms. “It’s a nunnery.”
The men eyed him blankly. Brendan sighed.
“Men aren’t allowed in.”
They blinked at that, looking rather foolish. There were some mutters, and the youngest man threw an apologetic look at Ned.
Ned bobbed up and down, a rictus grin on his face. As soon as he could, he hurried back behind the counter.
“Best get going, lad,” he whispered. “They’ll get drunk and nasty in a minute, and ye just humiliated them. They’ll remember that.”
Brendan nodded. “No need to tell me twice. Take care of yourself, Ned.”
“I’ll try, lad, I’ll try.”
The Priory was not as dramatic inside as Freya had expected.
The walls were mostly plain stone, plastered and whitewashed in places.
The floors were smooth stone flags, worn down by centuries of feet and countless scrubs.
She had expected ornate tapestries, furnishings, gold and gilt and silver.
Instead, the rooms were just… ordinary. Not deliberately uncomfortable, and everything was clean and tidy, but there was nothing ostentatious.
Nothing to imply that the nuns in here lived a better or more privileged life than the ordinary folks outside.
Senga and Kyla took her on a tour, pointing out the prayer rooms, the chapel of course, and a place called the Great Hall which seemed to have been turned into a sort of makeshift infirmary.