Passion's Exile (32 page)

“Unfortunately,” Wilham said with a sigh, “all that went awry when Jacob indeed took up with Brigit.”

Blade arched a brow in surprise.

“Aye,” Wilham asserted, “since yesterday. Lettie is all forlorn now, weepin’ and moanin’, and Brigit’s fawnin’ on the rich old dotard like he’s offered her her weight in gold.”

So vanished that theory.

“Now here’s somethin’ very interestin’,” Wilham continued, tapping a finger on the parchment. “Mary and Ivy—”

“Mary and Ivy?”

“The nuns. They’ve been seen by the scholars to engage in rather questionable whisperin’s.”

“Wilham, they’re nuns. Nuns always…whisper.”

“Ah, but do they quarrel so with one another? And when their quarrel’s ended, do they repair it with a kiss?”

“A kiss?”

“A kiss.”

“They
are
sisters.”

“Are they? Did anyone ask?”

“They have to be sisters.” But Blade didn’t know it to be true. ‘Twas only that they looked so much alike.

“And if they’re not sisters, then what?”

Blade grimaced. “Good friends?”

“
Very
good friends, by the look of that kiss.” Wilham wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “They may be brides o’ Christ, but it looks like they may be dallyin’ with Sappho.”

That didn’t surprise Blade. He suspected that nuns, pledged to a life of chastity, found affection where they could.

“Another interestin’ point,” Wilham said. “They mentioned bathin’ in Loch Walton.”

“Walton’s not far from Laichloan.”

“Aye, which means they may know Archibald.”

Blade glanced ahead at the line of pilgrims. The nuns walked in worshipful obedience behind the priest.

“What if the lad discovered their secret?” Wilham suggested. “What if Archibald saw them…bathin’ together? What if he threatened to reveal their sin to his father?”

“Laird John?” Blade scoffed. “I doubt he has much interest in condemnin’ a pair of errant nuns. He has a manor full of errant daughters.”

“True.” But Wilham wasn’t discouraged. He apparently had ample suspects left on his list. “Very well, let’s consider the scholars and the chinks in their particular armor. Thomas has a penchant for fabricatin’ tales. Ye missed his story last night, by the way, a fascinatin’ account of a pair o’ willin’ virgins he met on his travels to the Orient.”

Blade shook his head. “Thomas? The lad is scarcely old enough to have traveled to the Orient, and the last thing he’d be likely to find there is a willin’ virgin.”

“Agreed, but that’s my point. Ye see, accordin’ to Bryan, Thomas considers it a matter o’ pride that he can concoct a convincin’ lie on the spot.”

“Accordin’ to Bryan.”

“Accordin’ to Bryan, whom…” Wilham scanned his notes. “Thomas says is unnaturally infatuated with women.”

“Unnaturally?”

“He speaks o’ swivin’, mornin’, noon, and night—who has slept with whom, what he saw the stable lad perform upon the milkmaid, whom he’d like to bed. Daniel concurs, though he hastens to add that Bryan rarely deigns to engage in such sport himself.”

“Daniel concurs.” ‘Twas beginning to sound like rumor upon rumor, none of them grounded in fact.

“As for Daniel, Bryan speaks o’ his gamblin’ habits with great disdain. Apparently, he cannot resist the lure of a wager. He even has five shillin’s ridin’ on which o’ the three o’ them will first find an honest woman for wife.”

Blade lifted a skeptical brow.

“I know,” Wilham interjected. “‘Tis a hopeless wager.”

“So what leads ye to believe the scholars might be plannin’ Archibald’s murder?”

Wilham smugly tapped his head. “Ah, ‘tis about a woman.” He drew himself up proudly over what he deemed the clever workings of his mind. “What if Bryan loves Archibald’s betrothed, but cannot have her? Daniel has wagered that Thomas cannot win the wench for Bryan, and Thomas, an expert at deception, plans to do away with Archibald, lie about it, gain Bryan his beloved, and collect his winnin’s.”

Blade could only stare at Wilham. ‘Twas the most ridiculous, convoluted scheme he’d ever heard. He told him so.

“Listen, Blade,” Wilham hissed, nettled. “While ye were off rescuin’ your damsel in distress, I was here gatherin’ important information. If ye’re goin’ to—”

“Fine.” ‘Twas obvious Wilham had gone to a great deal of trouble. But without the balance of Blade’s practical nature, Blade feared that perhaps Wilham’s imagination had been given too free rein. “Go on.”

Wilham sniffed. “Fulk the butcher and Drogo the cook—the ideal recipe for murder.” He smirked at his own jest. “Well, I said it before. The butcher makes the perfect axe man when it comes to disposin’ of a body, and the cook… Well, suffice it to say one should never ask exactly what goes into haggis.”

“Their motive?”

“I’m still workin’ on that.” Wilham consulted his list again. “On to the tanners,” he decided. “Ivo and Odo, ever brewin’ trouble, ever lurkin’ about. Well, I got them drunk last night and—”

“Got them drunk? They’re
always
drunk.”

“Be that as it may, when I questioned them about their tannin’ trade, they loosened their tongues quickly enough to boast about the great noblemen who’d commissioned their work.”

“Laichloan?” Blade guessed.

“The same. And,” he said, glancing about to insure no one overheard him, “they grumbled that he had yet to pay them.”

Blade nodded. Indeed, the pair of brutes might scheme to hold Archibald hostage for payment. But murder?

“Then there’s the Highland woman,” Wilham announced. “What is she doin’ so far from her home?”

“She’s a merchant.” He shrugged. “Merchants travel.”

But Wilham intervened. “I’ll tell ye what I think. I think she may be travelin’ under an assumed name. Laird John was at the Borders fightin’ last year. Remember his boasts of oustin’ the Kerrs from their stronghold?” Wilham nodded smugly. “I think this Tildy may be a Kerr, and she may be hot for revenge.”

The concept was plausible, though ‘twas nigh impossible to imagine the stout old woman murdering a young lad. She’d more likely whip his backside with a willow branch and send him to bed without supper.

“Anyone else?” Blade asked. Thus far, no one was without suspicion.

“We know ‘tisn’t Rose.” ‘Twas a statement, but he looked askance at Blade.

“‘Tisn’t Rose.”

“And we know ‘tisn’t either of us.” He referred again to his parchment. “That leaves Campbell and Guillot.”

“And what have ye discovered about them?”

Wilham frowned. “God’s hooks, Blade. I’ve only had two days. I can’t work miracles.”

Blade smiled and clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Ye’ve done well.”

Secretly, however, Blade worried. They were too close to the target and too far from finding any real suspects. From Wilham’s calculations, any of them might be guilty. And from Blade’s point of view, none of them seemed capable.

On the morrow, they’d arrive at St. Andrews. Blade wished he had more time. More time to solve the mystery. And more time to sort out his feelings for Rose.

She’d be lost to him once they reached St. Andrews. She’d continue on to the convent, take the veil, and he’d never see her again.

He told himself she was only a lass like any other, a woman whose charms he could replace. But he didn’t believe the lie. And reiterating it in his mind only left a bitter taste in his mouth.

They had only one night left, and he was torn between gently extricating his affections from her in their remaining hours or letting himself be consumed in a great blaze of final reckless passion.

‘Twas that indecision that compelled him to drink himself senseless when the pilgrims finally repaired to Cameron House for the night.

The lady of the house was evidently renown for her bounteous supply of Greek wine, for it flowed as freely as water. Everyone imbibed with abandon, and soon the great hall rang with the clamor of drunken fools.

Even Rose’s straight back seemed to wobble as Blade lifted drowsy eyes to her, and she burst forth with a giggle over nothing at all.

Wink surveyed her mistress and the other loud revelers with stern disapproval, ruffling her feathers and hunkering in displeasure atop her perch at the back of the hall.

Father Peter’s sweating face was as ruddy as his wine, and his belly jiggled every few moments with a hearty laugh.

Simon the palmer kept dozing off, his head bobbing, his mouth hanging open.

Fulk and Drogo sat arm-in-arm, commiserating about their long absence from their women, weeping and repenting of all the unkind things they’d ever said about them.

The scholars made sport of guzzling down their drinks and challenging each other to feats of coordination none of them could accomplish.

Lettie sniveled about her lost love, trying to garner the sympathy of Campbell the soldier, who sank lower and lower toward oblivion with each cup of wine.

Guillot the apprentice couldn’t stop hiccoughing.

Brigit and her new paramour, Jacob the goldsmith, fawned over one another with embarrassing display.

The two nuns, likewise, seemed to have cast off their inhibitions, their eyes meeting lasciviously, their hands joined atop the table with more than sisterly fondness.

Tildy snored loudly, her chin perched impossibly atop the hand she’d clapped over the top of her cup.

Wilham, trying to remain solemn so he might discuss the forthcoming crime, managed to twist his tongue around every other syllable so that he wound up snorting at the end of each sentence, which then sent him into gales of laughter.

Only the tanners seemed unaffected by the wine, just their usual drunken selves.

But ‘twas Rose, sitting across from Blade, who amused him most. She was so full of languid pleasure that it manifested in a constant smile. Everything appeared to enchant her, from the stumbling feats of the scholars to the lame jests of the priest, from her Highland guardian, dozing atop her wine, to the soldier sliding beneath the table.

Blade watched her take another drink, and their eyes met over the rim of the flagon. She lowered the cup, grinning at him with open delight. Then she hiccoughed, and they shared a chuckle.

God, but she was lovely. He’d never find another woman of such beauty, such grace, a woman of such heart and spirit. His eyes began to well up, and he tore his gaze away, cursing the wine that was turning him into a weeping sot.

“Tales!” Father Peter cried suddenly.

“Tails, gentlemen!” Bryan slurred. The scholars, as one, staggered to their feet, turned about, and bent forward to tug down their breeches, exposing their buttocks and eliciting great laughs from the pilgrims.

“Lady Rose!” the priest shouted.

“Jesu!” Rose’s startled eyes widened. “Jesu,” she amended, “bless the lady of this house and all her progen-, progen-, all her children.”

“‘Tis your turn for a story,” Father Peter said.

“But I have no…” she began.

Blade nodded at her. “What about the St. Andrews bear?”

Everyone began to chant, “St. Andrews bear” so loudly they woke Tildy, and soon Rose had no choice but to accommodate them.

Blade listened as Rose related the story of a courageous, impetuous, obstinate young lass. As the tale wound around his ears, he couldn’t help but fall more deeply in love with the woman that young lass had become. She was compassionate and curious and intrepid. She possessed a heart as tender as a blossom, yet as strong as iron.

And the bear? Blade was like that bear, he realized. He was the savage creature she’d tamed—rough-hewn and surly and wretched. She’d braved his fierce roar and penetrated his tough hide. And now she held his heart in her hands.

How would he ever endure the pain of her leaving?

The story ended, and, despite his melancholy, Blade smiled at her. Rose—her eyes dipping in besotted pleasure—grinned coyly back.

“Ye, sir! Wilham!” the priest commanded. “Ye’ve interrogated the rest of us mercilessly on this journey. Come bend our ears now with a tale o’ your own makin’.”

Wilham screwed up his forehead, thinking, but all that came out was a loud burp. Giggles filled the hall. Then he thumped upon the table.

“I have it!” he announced, floundering to his feet to deliver the story. “I shall recount the tragedy,” he said dramatically, “o’ two brother knights and the woman who came between them.”

Blade stiffened. Wilham could not mean to tell that tale. ‘Twas his own, for the love of God. If anyone discovered who Blade was…

He prodded Wilham’s knee hard beneath the table, to no avail. Maybe his friend was too besotted to feel the jab. But Wilham turned to him then, placing a hand upon his shoulder, and Blade could see in the soft shine of his eyes that he wasn’t quite as drunk as he pretended. Wilham knew very well what he was doing, and he didn’t intend to stop.

He released Blade then and gestured grandly for the others.

“Not long ago, at Mirkhaugh, not far from where our journey began,” he said, “dwelled a laird and a lady of honor, wealth, godliness, and charity. They were loved by their vassals, knight and peasant alike, for they were benevolent and fair to all. And because the laird and lady were well contented with one another, the lady soon grew large with child.”

Blade stared at his wine. He wondered if Wilham knew the torture to which he was subjecting him.

“But upon the night o’ the child’s birth, the stars hung in such disarray that the heir born to the laird possessed a corrupt heart and an evil soul. And though he was coddled and adored and dressed in the finest o’ garments, the lad grew to be ungracious and cruel.”

Blade tapped his finger upon his cup. The room was silent, as ‘twas whenever Wilham related a story, for he was a gifted teller of tales. At Mirkhaugh, all the children gathered about him to hear his lofty adventures.

“But when the lad was five winters old, the lady was blessed with another son, and this one was everythin’ her first was not. He was kind and forthright, generous and humble, wise and loyal, courageous and true, just and— “

“Who was this paragon o’ virtue?” Blade blurted sardonically, unable to endure so much praise. “Galahad?”