Passion's Exile (18 page)

“Oh, good day!” Rose called out with faux cheer, tromping forward. “‘Tis a beautiful orchard, isn’t it? Pears, apples, damsons… ‘Tis no doubt lovely in summer, with blossoms thick on the branches. ‘Tis Ian, aye? Do I have it right? My name is Lady Rosamund, and I…”

She prattled on like a squirrel until her chittering began to annoy him, jarring him from his gloom, arousing instead his ire.

“Cease!” he snarled.

She swallowed hard. At least the despair was gone from his eyes. If she could keep him engaged…

“Why, what a temper,” she clucked, her felicity undimmed. “Anyway, I imagine the cider here is good. Have ye tasted it yet?”

He didn’t reply. Instead, he looked at her in confusion, as if she’d said something completely unintelligible and absurd.

“Nay, neither have I,” she said brightly, approaching with courage she did not feel. “We’ll have to go in and have a cup.”

She sincerely hoped he wasn’t the kind of man to lash out at whatever stood in his way, for she meant to plant herself firmly in his way.

She drew close, and his shoulders began to heave with quick breaths like those of a desperate wolf cornered by a hunter.

“Here,” she said, eyeing his dagger. “What’s this? Ah, ye must be plannin’ to shave.” She hunkered down beside him. His eyes widened, rolling like those of a panicked mare. “Let me help ye, then, Sir Ian,” she offered, her heart fluttering in her breast. “I always shaved my father’s beard. Didn’t nick him once.” The smile on her face wavered only slightly as she held her hand out for the dagger.

He stared at the ground. “Go,” he groaned. “Leave me.”

His voice made her want to weep. But she knew tears wouldn’t help him. “Nae,” she said gently. “I won’t leave ye.”

“Ye…” he began, his chin trembling. “Go. Please. Go.”

“I’m not leavin’ ye,” she repeated softly.

His will crumbled then, and his face dissolved into a grimace of sheer misery. The dagger dropped from his fingers, and his head sank into his hands. Though he tried to silence them, piteous sobs were wrenched from deep within his chest.

Her pulse still raced, but a relieved peace descended over Rose as she cast the dagger out of reach and rested a consoling hand upon the soldier’s sleeve. For a long while she said nothing, and eventually his sobs diminished.

“Have ye ever seen the shrine at St. Andrews?” she ventured.

He made no reply.

“I grew up there,” she told him. “The cathedral is a wondrous place, second only to heaven, I’m certain. God surely resides there. There, we shall all find peace…and hope…and redemption. Isn’t that why ye’ve come on pilgrimage?”

He shook his head. “There’s no redemption for me.”

She frowned, then tightened her grip on his arm until he looked over at her, his eyes red with weeping, his face wet with tears. “Ye’re wrong, Sir Ian. Even for those who killed Christ, there was redemption.”

Blade shifted behind the wall of the tavern, loosening his grip on the dagger he’d been clenching since Rose had first started toward Campbell. It appeared she was out of danger now. But the fool lass had risked much, stealing up on the soldier like a hunter stalking a wild boar. What had possessed her?

Maybe ‘twas her soft heart that led her to rescue this wounded animal, the same way she’d tamed her one-eyed falcon. Whatever motivated her, her tenderness and compassion and strength was touching.

His throat had thickened at her words to Campbell. Did she truly believe that a soul as errant as the soldier’s could be saved? If so, he wondered what she would say of
his
sin…

Before he could think too long on it, he allowed cynicism to seep in and strip the hope from him. He was nothing like the soldier, after all. Blade hadn’t come on pilgrimage for redemption. He knew his crime as well as he knew his boots, and after two years, they were an equally comfortable fit.

Indeed, Campbell might be the only one of the company with a true pilgrim’s calling. ‘Twas unlikely he was part of any murder plot. The battle-weary man had no stomach left for bloodshed, other than his own.

At last assured of Rose’s safety, Blade entered the tavern. He wouldn’t speak of Campbell’s torment, not even to Wilham. Which proved, he supposed, that there was a shred of decency left in him.

Wilham had managed to allay Tildy’s worries somehow with one of his clever stories and a tankard of cider, so that by the time Rose returned, the Highland woman was soused enough not to notice her long absence.

When the travelers lit out from the tavern again, the riders behind them had vanished. Blade wondered if his suspicious mind had played games with him, casting doubt where it didn’t belong. Perhaps he’d mistaken their proximity in the confusing echo of the mist. Whatever the circumstances, they no longer dogged the travelers, and the falcon, sensing his mistress’s relief, now perched calmly upon her glove.

Cowdenbeath nestled in the lap of a lush glen, and as they began their descent, the sun peeked low from beneath the solid wall of gray clouds, taunting them with a departing wink. Their inn for the night was appreciably larger than the last accommodations, with four chambers reserved for the pilgrims and a bounteous feast of rich stuffed capons, mushroom pasties, herb fritters, and mulled wine set on the table.

Rose was pensive this eve as the pilgrims supped and chatted and belched around her. Blade wondered where her thoughts were.

Campbell, though quiet, seemed less somber. Guillot the apprentice, who sat beside the soldier with something akin to worship in his eyes, even coaxed a word from him when he whispered something in his ear.

Drogo the cook told the first tale of the evening, delivering it with enormous relish, waving his meaty hands about and playing the parts of all the characters, training his voice first to a low growl and then to a great bellow. He told of some kitchen misadventure wherein a Scots laird made the mistake of hiring a French cook. The story culminated in its last line, which was, “I said haggis, not gag us!”

The pilgrims laughed uproariously, and the phrase was oft repeated throughout the rest of the evening.

To everyone’s amazement, shy Guillot volunteered to tell the next tale.

‘Twas a magical story about a young maiden who found and tamed a wounded wolf. But to the maiden’s distress, the wolf returned the favor by slaying her bridegroom. When ‘twas revealed her bridegroom was truly a wolf in man’s clothing who had intended to kill her, the maiden’s gratitude broke the enchantment over the good wolf, and he was transformed into a man. The couple married and lived happily ever after.

After the tale, a collective feminine sigh filled the room. Blade, however, with his practical eye, had discounted the tale from its beginning. Obviously, none of the ladies sighing so blissfully had ever seen a wounded wolf. The maiden in the story was a fool to approach such a dangerous, defensive creature.

Then he remembered Campbell earlier. He’d been dangerous and defensive, yet Rose had marched brazenly up to him. And he couldn’t deny that if Rose hadn’t arrived to stop the soldier when she did, Blade would have stepped in as well.

He frowned, sipping thoughtfully at his spiced wine. Rose and he must both be fools.

As he set his cup down, he let his gaze rove to where Rose sat, wondering if she, too, wore the dreamy expression that graced all the other women’s faces. But to his amazement, she stared bleakly at the table, tears pooling in her eyes.

His heart ached suddenly, as if he’d suffered the dull blow of a blunted lance. What troubled her? All the other women had enjoyed the lad’s story. Why hadn’t she? She should be content tonight. They had good lodging and plenty of food. And she should be doubly pleased in the knowledge that, because of her, Campbell lived to enjoy the tale.

Her tears brimmed, but didn’t fall, and her gaze slid to his. For once, she hid none of her sorrow from him, and the naked despair in her eyes was so great and so real that it shook the very foundations of his soul.

Never had he seen so forlorn a face. Rose’s melancholy roused feelings in him that had lain long dormant—strong and perilous urges to slay whatever dragon afflicted her.

He should ignore those impulses. Only a fool would touch a fire that had burned him before. Pursuing her demons was unthinkable. Imprudent. Unwise.

He finished off his mulled wine and sighed, aware with a sinking certainty that coming to her rescue was as inevitable as the rising of the sun. By the Saints, he was no better than that soft-witted maiden with her wounded wolf.

Rose sensed Blade coming toward her as the pilgrims retired from the dinner table, but she turned away from him. She didn’t wish to speak to him. She didn’t wish to speak to anyone.

Guillot’s story had stung her, like salt in a deep cut. The love shared between the maiden and the wolf had seemed so moving and magical, and it pained Rose to face the reality that she’d never experience such love.

Why was she so cursed? she wondered bitterly. There was neither wounded wolf nor gallant hero in her future. Did she not deserve even a small measure of tenderness, of loyalty, of devotion? Even Campbell—sinner that he was—seemed to mellow this eve under the reverent affection of the storyteller.

But instead, Rose was condemned to a wretched choice between two undesirable fates.

She knew her tears were self-indulgent. She wasn’t some free-spirited waif who might transcend the rules of her gender and the duties of her rank. Noblewomen most often married according to politics and not the dictates of their hearts. And if she chose not to marry, she was expected to exempt herself only by taking Christ to husband. She recognized that such was her obligation in life.

Still, it didn’t keep her from desiring what she couldn’t have. But tonight she’d rather not have to explain such callow desires to a seasoned knight who was well-versed in the duty required of nobility and would surely mock her selfishness.

So she hid her face and hurried off before he could call her back. And in the upstairs chamber, by the filtered glow of the rising moon, for the first time in her life, fearless, headstrong, spirited Rose cried herself silently to sleep.

The next morn dawned fair and bright. Rose, drained of tears and weary of despair, found herself in a reflective mood and determined she’d take inspiration from the promising sky. Perchance, by the light of day, she might examine her destiny more clearly. So as she walked along the grassy path touched by golden light, she tried on the garments of resigned peace. Her weeping and longings of the night past had been infantile, she realized. Today, she would grow up. Today, under the clarity of a cloudless heaven, she would fix upon her fate with a more rational eye.

After all, she decided, she had much to be thankful for. She was a titled lady. She didn’t have to toil in a shop like Tildy. She wasn’t so needy that she must seek a husband as desperately as Brigit. She had wealth enough for food and clothing and any trinkets that caught her eye. She’d been fostered by a generous and loving family—nurtured by Lady Anne, spoiled by Laird William—and she’d had many friends growing up. She’d owned a fine palfrey and painted dolls, gowns of velvet and silk, and even a pleasance garden full of flowers.

Indeed, when she thought of all she’d enjoyed through none of her own devices, she seemed rather an indulged child. She’d wanted for nothing. Perhaps ‘twas time to pay for her pampered lot in life.

“Tildy,” she solemnly announced as they ambled through a meadow jeweled with bluebells, “I’ve thought much these past few days, and I’ve decided…” She hoped her resolution was firmer than her voice. She cleared her throat. “I’ve decided,” she repeated more deliberately, “I’m goin’ to join the convent when we arrive in St. Andrews.”

“What!” Tildy’s squawk startled Wink, and the bird skittered up Rose’s sleeve.

Tildy grabbed her arm and skewered her with a glare. “Ye’re jestin’ with me, aye? A bonnie young lass like ye who could have any lad in all the world?”

Rose smiled ruefully. While that was certainly flattering, ‘twas hardly true. Politics played too great a part in the marriages of noblewomen.

“Ach!” Tildy spat, frowning toward the nuns walking before them and lowering her voice. “Ye canna want to waste your youth and that bonnie face, locked behind the walls of a nunnery.”

Rose furrowed her brow. She wished Tildy wouldn’t speak so bluntly. It cast doubt upon her decision. “I’ve heard, if one chooses wisely, that life in a convent can be pleasant and peaceful, rewardin’ and—”

“And barren!” Tildy huffed, garnering the ears of the sisters, who turned their heads about in simultaneous askance.

Tildy screwed up her forehead and embellished for their benefit, “Barren…
Baron
…Walter. Ye wouldna know him. He’s English.”

Satisfied with the lie, the nuns resumed their silent journey, and Tildy continued in a whisper. “Dinna ye have a betrothed, lassie?”

“I…I won’t marry him.” Uttering the words aloud seemed to lift a weight from her spirit, and she realized to her relief that while she might be desperate, she wasn’t willing to bargain with her heart.

Tildy considered that for a moment, then murmured in Rose’s ear, “Are ye afeared o’ the marriage bed?”

“Nae.”

“Then what is it, lassie?”

“I can’t explain it to ye.”

Rose’s admonition didn’t keep crafty Tildy from guessing. “Are ye…have ye, that is…are ye no longer a maid?”

“Nae, ‘tisn’t that,” Rose hissed, blushing.

The cogs of Tildy’s brain continued to turn, and Rose suddenly wished she’d never confided in the merchant. “Yer betrothed, did ye do somethin’ wicked to him? Did ye put frogs in his bed? Or mustard in his wine?”

Rose sighed. If only ‘twere so simple. “Maybe I’m simply moved to become a nun,” she suggested. “After all, this is a holy journey, and we’re surrounded by inspirin’ pilgrims o’ great piety and devotion.”

Unfortunately, just then, one of those pious pilgrims, a tanner, happened to stumble over a root on the trail, falling with a thud, a splash of spilled ale, and a rather loud and foul string of curses. Tildy raised a dubious brow.