Passion's Exile (5 page)

She was spared having to answer when a squat bear of a man arrived to thump the Viking on the chest. “Fulk!”

“Drogo!” the giant replied, clapping the intruder on the back. “Are you goin’ to St. Andrews as well?”

Drogo grumbled something into his black beard, something that included the words “wife” and “nagging” and “reprieve.” Then he brightened. “But why have
ye
come, eh, Fulk?”

Fulk, for all his manly size, looked slightly embarrassed. “I’m gettin’ married come summer.” He rubbed self-consciously at one of his large-muscled arms. “She won’t have me till I’ve repented o’ my sins.”

“Sins?” Drogo barked. “What sins?”

Fulk glanced at Rose. “I’m a butcher,” he explained. “She says I must go on pilgrimage to redeem my soul for all the beasts I’ve killed.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Drogo burst into long, rollicking laughter, causing Fulk a good deal of irritation.

“Women!” Drogo exclaimed after his laughter ended. Then, remembering Rose, he awkwardly cleared his throat.

Fulk smiled and shook his golden head, then made introductions. “My lady, I’m Fulk, and this is Drogo. He’s an old friend and cook at Ingleloch House.”

She nodded. “I’m Rose.”

“Handsome bird,” Drogo remarked. Rose stifled an urge to snatch Wink to her breast, fearing the man might be sizing the falcon up for his cooking pot.

A trio of young lads came forward, jostling each other with teasing elbows. The curly-headed one spoke first.

“We were wonderin’, m’lady, is that a lanner or a merlin?”

She opened her mouth to reply, but the lanky, dark-haired youth spoke. “Or maybe a kestrel? I think ‘tis a kestrel.”

“‘Tisn’t a kestrel, Daniel,” said the tallest lad, rolling his eyes. “Kestrels have no such markin’s. I say ‘tis a lanner.”

Daniel scowled.

“Nae, ‘tis a merlin,” the first boy said. “See the streaks?”

The tall lad towered even more authoritatively over his fellows. “And just what would ye know about falcons, Bryan? Your father keeps hounds.”

Bryan sputtered in anger, and Daniel raised a condescending brow. “
My
father has falcons,” he boasted, “mostly gyrfalcons and even a saker from the East.”

“Please, my lady,” the tall youth said, “explain to my companions that your bird is a lanner.”

“Thomas…” Bryan warned, punching his arm. Thomas punched him back, discreetly.

Rose’s head was spinning. The three lads waited for her answer. “Actually,” she told them, “‘tis a peregrine.”

The youths looked shocked, then crestfallen, then began battling amongst themselves again.

“I told ye ‘twasn’t a merlin.”

“Well, ‘twasn’t a lanner, was it?”

“A peregrine. That would have been my second guess.”

“Thank ye, my lady,” Thomas said with a nod before they ambled off in a flurry of whispered insults and friendly clouts.

“Scholars from Glasgow,” Fulk explained when they’d gone. “They live to bicker.”

“Fulk,” Drogo said, “let’s see if we can stomach a bit o’ the breakfast they serve here, eh?”

Fulk nodded, and they set off after the innkeeper.

So far the pilgrims seemed benign. Fulk was a kindly giant, despite being a butcher. Drogo, the cook, would keep them from starving. The three scholars, though youthfully rude, appeared harmless enough. Brigit was too embroiled in her own affairs to care much for those of Rose. And Father Peter was congenial toward everyone.

Rose ran the back of her finger along Wink’s throat, soothing the falcon after so much attention, and studied the rest of her fellow travelers.

The gaunt man in gray was a palmer. His cloak was studded with numerous pilgrim badges, among them the palm leaf of Jerusalem. His walking staff was darkened with wear. Men such as he made a comfortable living traveling on pilgrimage on behalf of wealthy nobles who didn’t wish to be inconvenienced by the journey. He conversed with an old apple-cheeked woman who eyed him rather like a knight sizing up a warhorse.

A meek youth of surely no more than thirteen years, as thin as a claymore, huddled at a tiny table, nibbling on a crust of bread. ‘Twas difficult to discern his history, as ‘twas that of the solitary man swilling ale in the dark corner and the buxom woman with pouting scarlet lips and thick locks of chestnut hair.

The loud pair of leather-skinned men whose beards were dotted with foam must be laborers of some sort, and by the look of the elderly gentleman whose waist, throat, and fingers gleamed with gilded treasure, he was either a successful merchant or a goldsmith.

A pair of young nuns stood shyly in one corner, their fair faces glowing like candles in the darkness of the inn. By their matching wide eyes and frail features, they had to be sisters. Despite their timidity, ‘twasn’t long before the scholars began haranguing them for advice on finding pious wives.

Rose let her gaze drift over the white wimples and gray habits of the nuns and pondered for the first time what life in a convent might be like. Now that she’d fled her betrothed, one of the options left her was joining a holy order. Most women her age shuddered at the thought. Internment in a convent was a common threat issued to wayward daughters. But Rose had heard favorable things about the church. In the service of the Lord, a woman might enjoy a great deal of freedom and, ‘twas rumored, aspire to great power.

And what of the disadvantages? As far as she could see, there were only two—celibacy and boredom. After the abomination she’d witnessed in the stable, celibacy seemed desirable. As for boredom…

She was still reflecting upon her future, absently stroking Wink, when her eye caught a flicker of silver from the darkest shadow in the deepest corner of the room.

She hadn’t noticed the man before. His black cloak and dark leather chausses made him seem part of the smoke-seasoned timbers of the inn. Even now she couldn’t see him well. His eyes were hidden by the hood of his cloak, which revealed only the lower half of his face—a grim mouth and a square, black-stubbled jaw—and yet somehow she felt he watched her.

A forbidding thrill shivered along her spine. She turned aside, raising her hand to her face so she could peer at the stranger in secret from behind her fingers.

His boots extended beneath the table in a lazy, almost insolent manner, and except for occasionally running a single finger along the rim of his cup, he scarcely moved. But when he lifted his arm to drink, she saw it again—the glint of metal.

Her heart bolted into her throat. He wore shackles. He was a criminal then. She’d heard about men like him, dangerous men who chose to go on pilgrimage as punishment for their crimes. She gulped. What might his villainy be? Theft? Adultery? Murder?

Maybe going on a pilgrimage hadn’t been such a wise decision after all.

But before she could change her mind, Father Peter clapped his hands together, calling for silence and summoning the pilgrims to draw near.

She rose from the table, and when she dared look again, she saw the man in shackles had come to his feet and thrown back his hood.

Her breath caught. He stood tall over most of the other pilgrims. The width of his shoulders and the breadth of his chest marked him as a man of uncommon strength. Candlelight illuminated the angled planes of his face, accentuating the hollow of his cheek and the depth of his brow. Dark hair slashed down in long, unruly locks over his forehead, shadowing his softly glimmering eyes.

Rose swallowed a rough knot of fear as she glanced at the irons shackling his wrists, wondering if the length of heavy chain slung between the thick cuffs would hold.

Father Peter spoke, issuing instructions for the pilgrimage, but she didn’t hear a word. All her attention was focused on the dark figure that seemed to reign over the room.

He must have sensed her scrutiny, for in the next moment, he slowly turned his head until he stared at her as intently as she watched him. His brow furrowed, and his mouth hardened as he studied her in a bold, leisurely manner from head to toe. His gaze commanded her own, for try as she might, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him.

Yet ‘twas more than fear that held her. Something in his glittering eyes excited her, challenged her, aroused her. He was absolutely beautiful, sinfully so, she realized, more striking than any man she’d ever seen. But there was something terrible in his beauty, some dark secret that lodged within the handsome confines of his form.

His eyes narrowed upon her for a long moment, as if they delved into her soul. Her heart raced, her breath grew shallow, her knees weakened. Overwhelmed by a mysterious, powerful shock she couldn’t name, she gripped the table to steady herself. When he finally looked away, so intrusive and lasting was the impact of his gaze that Rose felt as if she’d been violated.

Blade scowled in the direction of the priest, his heart pounding far too forcefully. That woman, the one with the half-blind falcon, had unsettled him. And he was unaccustomed to being unsettled.

“Look penitent,” Wilham hissed beside him.

Blade made the attempt, but soon the curious furrow crept back between his brows.

He’d spied the lass the instant she’d walked through the door, arriving on a stream of sunlight like an angel alighting from heaven. Her rare beauty had astonished him, and he wasn’t a man easily astonished. She was as small and slim as a child, yet she possessed enough womanly curves to be the mistress of a king. Her snug white underdress, exposed in the slits of a sideless surcoat the color of ripe cherries, revealed a delectable form that sent his heart racing and his thoughts spiraling along all manner of sins.

Her features were as delicate as a fawn’s, yet strong and pure in color. Her skin was pale and smooth, like cream, her lips the hue of summer wine. Fine black brows arched over impossibly enormous eyes of a curious color he couldn’t distinguish. And tumbling down past the swell of her hip, unbound sleek black tresses as shiny as satin reflected the flickering firelight.

But ‘twas more than her beauty that snared his eye.

She didn’t belong here. ‘Twas plain in the nervous darting of her glance. She was as out of place amidst the milling pilgrims as a lily in a field of thistles.

Where were her things? he wondered. Noblewomen always insisted on packing chests of clothing, necessities they claimed they couldn’t live without, even if they ventured but a day’s ride from their home. Despite the rich velvet of her surcoat and the quality of the fine silver chain and small polished carbuncle that dripped tantalizingly upon her bosom, this woman appeared to possess nothing but the garments she wore and the falcon. How could she have planned to journey to St. Andrews without provisions?

Wilham elbowed him. “At least
feign
to listen,” he muttered.

Blade lifted his head and attempted to focus on the fat priest jabbering on about rules and lodging and the sanctity of pilgrimage, but soon his mind wandered again. He lifted a hand, wincing at the clank of the chains, and scratched at his brow so he might peek at the woman between his fingers.

God’s breath, she was dazzling. Her attention was upon the Holy Father now, but by the rapid rise and fall of her bosom, ‘twas clear she was ill-at-ease. He slowly perused her again from top to bottom, lifting a brow at the state of her attire. Her gown might be made of costly velvet, but there was a small tear at the inside of one sleeve, the hem was muddy, and the lower quarter of her skirt was littered with bits of dry grass. What mischief had the lass been up to?

Everyone around him murmured, “Amen.” He belatedly echoed the sentiment. Then the mob began gathering their possessions and shambling toward the door.

“Seven miles a day,” Wilham said, shaking his head. “‘Tis a snail’s pace.”

Blade slung his pack over his shoulder and tried to purge the entrancing angel from his thoughts, scrutinizing the pilgrims one by one as they filed past. There were two scheming culprits in their ranks, and he didn’t have much time to find them.

“‘Twould take us two days on horseback,” Wilham complained, shouldering his own burden.

Blade grunted, not really listening. Who could the perpetrators be? Who looked capable of such villainy? The lass in red glanced fleetingly over at him again. Could she be an assassin? ‘Twas unthinkable. She had the sweet countenance of a cherub. Still, he was wise enough to know a bonnie face oft hid a black heart.

“Well,” Wilham sighed, “at least we’ll be comfortable enough tonight—dinin’ on spun sugar and sleepin’ with hot-blooded nuns.”

Blade absently nodded, then drew his brows together. Never mind the angel with the ebony hair, he chided himself. That brawny man with the week’s growth of beard and the threadbare cloak had a ruthless edge to his stare. Was he a killer?

Wilham cuffed him. “I knew ye weren’t listenin’.”

“What?”

“Come along, Blade. I’ll fill ye in.”

They fell in behind the last pilgrim.

“By the way, I’ve brought your sword,” Wilham said smugly.

Blade gave him a sharp glare. “I won’t use it.”

“‘Twas a foolish vow,” Wilham muttered. “Ye’ll regret makin’ it.”

Blade disagreed. The surrender of his sword, like the shackles about his wrists, lent credence to his disguise. And in a strange way, unburdened of the blood-stained weapon that had weighed upon his soul for two years, he indeed felt the faint hope of redemption.

‘Twas a glorious spring morn. If he’d been less intent on his mission and less distracted by the scarlet temptress moving along the path well ahead of him, Blade might have enjoyed the pleasant march. The sun was bright, the sky cloudless, the air filled with birdsong. But his ear was attuned only to the quiet conversation around him, listening for any clue as to the identity of the killers.

A few of the pilgrims seemed above suspicion. He highly doubted that Father Peter, the organizer of the pilgrimage, had so dire a plot in mind. The priest was the most verbose of the travelers, though the man’s girth left him huffing breathlessly as he waddled along the path, stabbing at the ground with his staff. The priest took enormous pride—almost sinful pride—in the many pilgrimages he’d made in his life. There was no end to his bluster. It seemed he’d been to every shrine in Christendom, and for each he had a story—a very long story—to relate.