Chapter 7
A Wanted Woman
At that exact instant, the barkeeper set down two foaming tankards of ale on the table, between Brendan and Freya.
Of course, that drew the soldiers’ eyes towards them.
Freya made the mistake of glancing up and meeting the eyes of one man.
She hastily looked away, but of course, it was already too late.
The man gave an incredulous chuckle, and came striding over. The other two men scuttled along behind him.
“Well, well, well. What have we got here?” he murmured, hands on his hips. “See, I know this lad here from the last time we visited this place, but ye, wee lassie, are new.”
He was a stocky man, the colors of the Grahame tartan kilt he wore seeming to suck the pallor from his skin.
It made him look sickly. His hair was a greasy sort of blond color—what remained of it, at least—and was plastered to his scalp.
The two men behind him were dark-haired, one tall, one short.
It was clear that the first man was very much in charge.
“I don’t want trouble here,” Ned said uneasily, “Take a seat, lads, and I’ll bring ye over some ale. On the house. Just don’t bother my patrons, eh?”
Freya remembered at the last minute that she was meant to be a nun, and nuns probably did not glare balefully at people. She dragged her gaze down to the grainy, wooden surface of the table, and tried to pretend she was serene and unafraid.
It wasn’t working, especially when tension was rolling off Brendan in waves.
“No wonder ye were so sharp with us last time, lad,” the first man said, nudging Brendan and winking at him. “This is yer lady friend, is it?”
“Just a friend,” Brendan snapped. “And no business of yers.”
“I think it might be, though. Nuns breaking their vows and taking sweethearts seems like a serious matter, nay? Unless, of course, ye are not getting any from her,” he glanced over his shoulder at that, looking for approval from the other two.
They chuckled obediently. He nudged Brendan again, whose expression was growing darker by the instant.
“That would explain why ye are in such a bad temper all the time, hey?”
Brendan was halfway out of his chair before Freya could react. She reached out desperately, grabbing at his wrist.
“Don’t,” she hissed, eyes wide. “Just… just leave it. He isn’t worth it. Who cares what they think?”
Don’t draw too much attention to us, she hoped he understood. There are three of them—armed—and only two of us.
Well, and the barkeep, who is currently hiding behind the counter. And I’m not sure I’d be much help, so really, it’s just ye against the three of them.
Brendan met her eye for a long moment. For an awful instant, she thought that he was going to shake her off and then punch the man in the face. It would be incredibly satisfying, of course, at least until one of the other men drew a sword and stabbed Brendan in the gut.
He gave a sigh, and sank back into his seat. Freya gave him a quick, relieved smile.
“That’s it, laddie,” the first man said, voice thick with amusement. “Listen to yer lady friend. And what’s this? Ale? Tut-tut. The rules at that Priory are much more lax than we imagined. We’d best tell someone about this, eh?”
Brendan clenched his jaw, a muscle feathering in his cheek, but he stayed silent.
Clearly piqued by the lack of response, the man snorted, and then snatched up the piece of paper. He slammed it down onto the table between them, making Freya’s ale slop over the side of her tankard. She found herself staring down at her own face, beneath a few sentences of scrawled information.
“She,” the man announced, “is a wanted woman. Have either of ye seen her? Short, thin, freckled, red hair, blue eyes. Said to be pretty. Seen her?”
Brendan grunted and shook his head.
Feeling the man’s gaze burning into the side of her face, Freya kept her eyes lowered.
“I haven’t,” she murmured in response. “I’m sorry.”
The man leaned closer, closer and closer until she could feel his hot, smelly breath on her cheek.
“Ye are a pretty one,” he said, voice a low rasp. “Shame about… all of this,” he gestured vaguely to her nun’s habit. “Such a waste for the pretty ones to shut themselves up, eh, lads?”
“Back away from her,” Brendan said warningly. “I’ll not tell ye again.”
The man chuckled. “I’d stay sat down if I were ye, lad. Now, lassie, what is yer name? And what does yer hair look like under that ugly hood? I bet ye have got pretty hair, eh?”
He pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger, and Freya jerked her face away, finally turning to face him.
“Leave me alone,” she hissed. “Or there’ll be trouble.”
She’d hoped to sound threatening, but the man only chuckled, grinning.
“Ooh, she bites! I like a lass with spirit. Now, let’s get a look at ye, eh?”
Before Freya could do anything, the man grabbed at her wimple and yanked it away in one smooth movement.
She yelped, lifting her hands to her head.
Several strands of her hair had gotten caught in the folds of fabric and were pulled painfully out from her scalp.
She could see them, long coppery strands dangling from the wimple, still hanging crumpled from the man’s hand.
Her hair in its loose braid had fallen heavy over her shoulders, long pieces having come free to hang around her face.
The man stared at her, mouth slightly agape. He glanced at the piece of paper with Freya’s likeness on it, and back at her.
“Wait a moment,” he said, lifting a finger. “Ye aren’t actually… I didn’t think… Lads, grab her, and quick. She’s—”
He never got to finish what he was going to say because at that moment, Brendan’s fist crashed into the side of his face.
The man’s feet literally left the ground, and he went flying into a table and chairs with a tremendous crash. He didn’t get up, lying in a shattered mess of splinters.
Brendan was on his feet now, and turned to face Freya.
“Under the table,” he barked. “Quick!”
There was no time to think twice. She obeyed, heart thudding.
I wish I had my bow and arrows. I wish Da had let me take them to Keep Grahame. I might have been able to take them with me when I escaped.
No time to think about that now. The other two men rushed forward, yelling. The tall man withdrew a greatsword, swinging it back over his head in a formidable arc. Freya clapped a hand over her mouth, expecting at any second to see Brendan get decapitated.
But the ceiling was far too low for such a long, heavy sword, and the blade got stuck in the eaves above the man’s head.
He tried in vain to pull it free, until Brendan punched him in the gut.
He let go over the sword hilt—still stuck in the eaves—and doubled over.
Brendan lifted him up bodily, and threw him forward through the window.
The pane shattered, and the poor barkeep—probably still sheltering behind the counter somewhere—gave a moan of dismay.
The third man came forward more carefully.
He had drawn a shorter sword, no longer than his forearm, and twirled it expertly in his hand.
He surged forward, quick as lightning, but Brendan was quicker.
He dodged again and again, far lighter on his feet than a man of his size should be.
The soldier was growing impatient and desperate, stabbing at the air.
More than once, the blade passed so close to Brendan’s torso she thought that he must have been caught, but he never slowed down, never flinched, and never took his eyes off the man’s flashing blade.
In an instant, so quickly that Freya nearly missed it, Brendan sidestepped once again, but this time grabbed the man’s wrist. He twisted his arm, and there was a sickening crack. Snatching the sword out of the man’s limp hand, he drew it back, point first.
He’s going to stab him, Freya thought in a horrified rush. He’s going to kill him.
Brendan paused, and then glanced over his shoulder.
He met her eye. The whole exchange took a split second, but she saw something change in his face.
He deftly threw the sword into the air, catching it around the guard.
He hit the soldier across the head with the pommel, and the man’s eyes rolled back into his head. He slumped to the ground, unconscious.
There was a long, long moment of silence, broken only by Freya’s ragged gasps and Brendan’s panting.
“Freya?” he said at last, his voice sounding very small and still in the quiet. “Are ye alright?”
She crawled out from under the table. Her braid pulled painfully on her sore scalp, and she had no idea what had happened to her wimple.
“I’m not hurt,” she responded shakily. “Brendan, that was incredible! I thought for sure they were going to kill ye. Kill us both.”
Brendan scoffed, tossing the sword away. “Just because I don’t carry a blade these days doesn’t mean I’m not a soldier.”
“Get out,” came the barkeep’s shaky voice. They both turned to see him peering over the counter, eyes bulging. “Get out of my pub.”
Brendan’s shoulders sagged. “Ned…”
“Don’t Ned me! Look at the damage! I know for a fact ye can’t pay for any of this, Brendan!
I begged ye to keep yer head down. Why can ye not just—” he broke off abruptly, shaking his head.
He passed a trembling hand over his head, and threw an angry look at Freya.
“I don’t know who ye are, lass, but ye are no nun. ”
“I-I’m sorry, but ye cannot blame Brendan for this,” Freya heard herself say, voice wobbling. “None of this was his fault. Or mine, or yours! It was theirs, we were only defending ourselves. If it wasn’t for Brendan—”
“Enough!” Ned snarled. “Ye have brought trouble on my head, Brendan. Those men are going to wake up and go back to their captain, and tell him all about what happened here. Ye don’t know what ye have done. Get out of here, quick, before they wake up. And don’t come back. Not this time.”
Brendan pressed his lips together in a thin line. “Ned…”
Ned shook his head, turning his back. “Out. Both of ye. Now.”
Freya glanced up at Brendan, nibbling her lip. There was a flash of pain on his face, quickly smoothed away. He turned to her, taking her hand. She hadn’t expected that, and was too shocked to pull away.
“We’ll go, then. I’m sorry, lad.”
Ned said nothing, and did not turn around as Brendan and Freya walked out.
“I’m shaking,” Freya confided, once they were a few streets away from the pub and safely tucked away down an alley that didn’t smell too bad. “Can we take a moment? I feel as though I’m going to pass out.”
Brendan smiled down at her. “Aye, a fight will get yer blood up, alright. If I were ye, I’d stay away from the village for a while. Stick to the convent.”
She sighed. “I suppose ye are right. Thank ye, by the way. For saving me.”
He shrugged. “It’s nothing.” He kept looking at her strangely, still breathless, his blue-gray eyes clear and intense like chips of ice.
She straightened up, leaning back against the stone wall behind her. “Why are ye so keen to help me?”
He tilted his head to one side. “Well, nobody deserves Laird Grahame’s rage.”
Freya paused, taking this in. “Wait. Do ye know him? What aren’t ye telling me, Brendan?”
He sighed, glancing away. “It doesn’t matter. Listen, lass, I mean it. Stick to the convent. Ye shouldn’t really have left in the first place. The village isn’t safe for ye anymore, not with Grahame soldiers tramping around.”
She pursed her lips, folding her arms across her chest. “Well, I do feel pretty brave when I’m with ye, ye know. Especially since ye keep saving me without being asked.”
“Oh, ye want me to stop?”
She gave a short laugh. “No, no. Absolutely not. I like being with ye.”
He flinched, turning his head sharply away. A muscle feathered in his jaw.
“Ye shouldn’t feel at ease with me. I’m a dangerous man. Ye don’t know what I’ve been through. I’m unlucky, and danger follows me like a dog at my heels. I may not be able to protect ye next time.”
Freya swallowed thickly, tilting her head. She knew he was going to look at her again, could feel it like something inevitable. He did look at her, the muscle in his cheek jumping again.
“I can’t help it,” she said, her words not feeling quite like her own, as if they were being forced out of her. “Everything is exciting when I am with ye. Even danger. I don’t mind it.”
He was looking at her, his expression strangely intent once again, his eyes dark and hungry. Something tightened in Freya’s chest, butterflies fluttering in her stomach. Was it her imagination, or was it suddenly hard to breathe?
“Don’t try my limits, lassie,” he ground out.
Freya grinned. “Oh, but it’s so much fun.”
He growled, low in his chest. And then, quite without warning, Brendan leaned down and kissed her.