by Carmen Caine
Bowing his head, Pascal strode with a purpose towards the towering Church of St. Mary and All Saints when a short man with thick stubby eyebrows fell into place behind him. But the stranger had taken no more than three paces before the slim dark-haired youth whirled and lunged for him.
The scuffle was short-lived, but it was long enough to let Julian close the distance between them and find cover behind a stack of oaken barrels nearby.
“Diàmbarne!” Pascal spat a series of vehement curses. Gripping the short man by the throat, he hissed, “Ale! Get you gone, Saluzzo!”
With an adept maneuver, the man twisted and broke free. “You have no power over me, you fool!” He stayed his ground, sizing Pascal up and down before continuing with a sneer, “I would know why Pascal da Vilardino walks so far from La Serenìsima!”
Julian raised a curious brow; but then, from the corner of his eye, he spied a brilliant flash of green scuttle across the castle drawbridge.
It was Liselle.
The lass certainly had a knack for interrupting him. And judging by the speed of her gait, he had less than a minute before she’d see him crouched behind the barrels, eavesdropping on her cousin.
A quick search of potential escape routes settled upon the rotund jolly-eyed friar headed his way, driving an ancient cart pulled by an even older donkey. It would be easy enough to take advantage of its cover to switch hiding places.
Casting a gauging eye at Liselle, he still had seconds to spare. She couldn’t see him yet. Leaning forward, he turned his attention once more upon Pascal.
“I owe you no explanation, Saluzzo,” the youth was saying in an arrogant tone. Impaling the thick-browed man with a chilling gaze, he continued, “Get you gone from my sight! I care not for this mistake of a truce between our families, and I will not vouch for your safety should you tarry a moment longer in my company!”
The man sniffed in disgust. “You are but a pup still suckling milk! I will see that Orazio hears of your words.”
“I do not fear Orazio,” Pascal replied with a careless laugh and a proud toss of his head. “Be gone! For I swear if my eyes fall upon you once more, I will right gladly send you back to Ferrara colder than stone!”
The Saluzzo faltered back a step, clearly shocked. And then his voice dropped in warning, “The Saluzzi will not be the first to shed blood. But if blood is spilled, I will devote my life to see that not a single trace of the Vindictam is left!” His eyes lit eagerly at the very thought. And then he spat in the mud at Pascal’s feet.
A blade suddenly appeared in Pascal’s hand.
And it was at that moment that the friar’s cart rolled between them, blocking Julian’s view.
“Ach, what timing!” Julian swore under his breath. Rising to his feet, he sauntered alongside the rickety contraption, ducking down a little just as Liselle passed on the other side.
She didn’t see him, her hazel eyes were focused straight ahead.
And then for one gloriously suspended moment, he saw nothing but her flawless skin, her impossibly long dark lashes, the soft curve of her neck, and her pouting lips clamped tightly shut with determination.
And then she was gone, and he shook his head as if to wake from a dream.
Straightening a little, he maintained his pace with the cart.
What ailed his reasoning? He knew better than to allow himself to become enamored with such a devious lass. Aye, he was fair worn. ‘Twas time to return to Scotland, deliver the news to Cameron and then rest a wee spell and spend his days with a lass on his knee and drowning his thoughts in wine as befitted the scandalous Lord Gray.
Shaking his head to clear it, he leaned over the cart’s edge to inspect its cargo with a keen eye. It was filled with a variety of items, from wine caskets to crates of vegetables, but a monk’s robe thrown over a bundle of hemp gave him a sudden idea.
Sprinting forward, he caught the donkey’s head and pulled the cart to a halt.
“Good day, my son.” The jolly-eyed friar dipped his double chin in greeting.
“And a good day to ye, father,” Julian replied with a grin. Fishing a silver coin from his sporran, he tossed it onto the wooden seat next to the man. “Stay and take refreshment ere ye swim home.”
“Bless you, my child,” the friar replied with a hearty laugh as he pocketed the coin. “’Tis more than enough to buy a keg!” And then with an encouraging cluck, he urged his donkey forward.
Nodding a farewell, Julian waited until the cart had almost passed him by before reaching in to pluck the robe free. It only took a moment to slip it on and draw the cowled hood low over his face.
Cautiously, making his way back to the stack of barrels, he saw no sign of the Saluzzo or of Liselle, but Pascal was crossing the market square and had nearly reached the threshold of the churchyard.
Adopting a stooped shuffle, Julian kept his eye trained on the youth from under his monk’s hood as he threaded his way through the crowd. Villagers lugging mud-spattered baskets of fish and vegetables dipped their heads in respect, and he faithfully responded to each one with a benediction and the sign of the cross.
Pascal stopped in front of the church’s massive doors a moment and then swiveled on his heel to cross the street and lean against the stone wall of a simple thatch-roofed cottage. Folding his arms, he immediately began to tap his fingers in impatience.
Shifting his course, Julian ambled towards the church’s entrance, picking his way through the mud.
Several times he felt Pascal’s eyes upon him. But the dark-haired youth lost interest the moment Julian placed his hand on the latch of the church’s heavy oak door.
Entering, he dipped his finger in the basin of holy water before him and made the sign of the cross. The church was quite empty save for several craftsmen busily at work on a pulpit which had newly been gifted by King Edward. So focused on carving and painting the hexagonal structure, the men never even lifted their heads to acknowledge Julian as he made his way down the wide nave and towards the western aisle of church. He slipped behind a tall screen and exited the church through a small doorway that was meant only for clerks.
Crossing to the nearby cloister, he heaved himself up onto its lower roof, and racing over the sloping tiles, crouched down near the ridgepole to peer down at the street below.
Pascal was still slumped against the cottage wall, idly inspecting his hands.
Expelling a long breath, Julian settled back on the lead tiles to wait for Pascal’s next move. His rooftop perch afforded him a good view of the bustling marketplace. And as time passed, he found himself searching time and time again for any sign of Liselle amongst the ever-changing crowd, but he never saw her.
Pascal fidgeted continually, at times tapping his foot, pacing up and down before the cottage wall, or stretching and yawning out of pure boredom.
And then the church bells began to ring, and Julian winced, covering his ears.
But, as the last strains died away, two lean, black-cloaked men approached the thatched-roofed cottage. Upon catching sight of Pascal, they threw back their hoods to reveal dark angular features and grim faces.
Pascal straightened at once and stepped out into the street to greet them by clasping his forearms with theirs and kissing them upon the cheek.
But then, to Julian’s surprise, Liselle’s cousin extended his hand and both men sank immediately to their knees.
First one man, and then the other, seized Pascal’s hand to reverently kiss a golden ring upon his finger.
And then Pascal murmured something, motioning for them to rise. Huddling close, the three men bowed their heads to speak in low whispers.
Julian grimaced.
He’d never hear what they were saying from his current position on the roof. He needed to get closer, and judging by the attention lavished upon the ring, it would be useful to get a better glimpse of that as well.
But first, he had to create a diversion.
An inspection of his surroundings afforded only one
viable option. Swine. Fat sows with multitudes of piglets squealed and rooted in their market pen scarce ten feet away from Pascal and his whispering companions.
Crossing back over the roof, Julian dropped to land softly on the stones. Quickly, he drew the cowl over his face once more, and catching the ear of the nearest ragamuffin, he whispered his request.
Upon seeing the coin, the lad’s mouth spread into a wide toothy grin, and the bargain was promptly sealed with a handshake.
In less than a minute’s time, the swine were free and mayhem ensued.
Piglets scattered in all directions. And to Julian’s delight, a particularly large sow charged the two men, effectively driving a wedge between them and Liselle’s cousin.
Pleased, Julian tossed the ragamuffin his earned coin and swiftly stepped into the street. Piglets wove around his feet as he advanced on Pascal, and it was with some small measure of amusement that he collided directly into him to send him sprawling into the mud.
Alarmed, Pascal’s two companions surged forward as Julian watched, etching their faces into his memory. They were distinctive enough, boney and sharp-featured, with eyes like hawks.
But before they could navigate through the squealing piglets to reach him, Julian had grasped Pascal’s hand. With a gruff-voiced “Forgive me, my child”, he hefted the slim youth to his feet, taking the opportunity to study the signet ring from beneath his cowl.
The ring was unusual. The symbol carved on its gold surface was one he wouldn’t forget easily, a bold ‘V’ entwined with a crown and a sword.
And then Pascal was snatching his hand free, but his tone was respectful enough as he replied, “’Tis no fault of yours, father.”
“Bless you, my son,” Julian grunted, and with a hobbling step, headed back to the market square, keenly aware of Pascal’s riveting gaze observing his every move.
Aye, the lad was suspicious of him. Likely, he’d send one of his men to investigate.
Quickening his step, Julian ducked into the back of a weaver’s shop. Discarding the monk’s robe, he straightened his plaid and strolled through the place, past the startled weaver measuring ells of cloth, and out the front door. He then casually leaned against the sun-warmed wall next to a basket of wooden spindles and unspun wool, looking to all the world as if he’d been standing there for hours.
Casting a quick glance around, he spied Pascal standing alone in front of the churchyard; his men were nowhere to be seen.
Julian grinned.
No doubt, they were looking for the clumsy priest. And almost as if on cue, one of Pascal’s men burst through the door beside him.
“What’s the hurry, aye?” Julian asked him in amusement.
The man eyed him suspiciously.
With a careless shrug, Julian turned away to survey the women in the market crowd. And spying a particularly comely lass nearby, he gave a piercing whistle and raised his hand to hail her, “Come hither for a wee kiss, ye bonny blue-eyed maid!”
The maiden glanced his way and smiled.
The suspicion on the face of Pascal’s grim-faced companion disappeared. Assuming an arrogant stance, he asked Julian instead, “Have you seen a priest pass through here?”
Julian hid a smile. “Aye,” he replied in a distracted tone, waving his hand in the opposite direction. “A cowled priest just entered yonder inn, methinks.”
The man bolted towards the place scarcely before the words had left his mouth. Julian shook his head with a wicked smile. It was unlikely the fool would find a priest at the inn, but perhaps he’d find a wild goose being served for supper.
Stretching and taking a deep breath, Julian decided it was time he’d returned to the castle. He’d learned enough of Pascal’s doings for now. Aye, the lad was an enigma, as was his bonny cousin, Liselle, but he wasn’t yet certain if the Saluzzi and the Vindictam, along with Pascal’s distinctive ring, truly had anything to do with him or Scotland’s affairs.
Of more pressing concern was the army headed north, its exact size, and procuring documented proof of Albany’s betrayal.
Heading back to the castle, he had just neared the gate when he heard Liselle’s distinct throaty voice.
“But it’s not worth buying, even for the cutting of bread, good sir!” she said in a slightly outraged tone.
Julian paused.
Liselle stood before a craggy-faced man in front of a blacksmith’s forge, squinting at a dagger driven deep into the wooden lid of a rain barrel. A thick strand of her hair had escaped her jeweled hairnet to fall forward and frame her face with a spiraling curl.
“You haggle worse than a fishwife, my lady.” The blacksmith gave a rough laugh. “A finer blade you’ll not see in Fotheringhay! I stake my life on it!”
“Then you will not live to see the sun set,” Liselle responded with amusement. “I would see your finer wares.”
Julian raised a curious brow. The lass and her kin only grew more interesting by the moment. Most likely, she knew of Pascal’s doings. And since she was standing only a few feet from him, mayhap it would be worth a few minutes to dally with her a wee bit and charm answers from her pouting lips.
Brandishing his smile like a weapon, he stepped forward. “May I be of assistance, fair maid?”
Liselle glanced up in surprise. And the responding delight in her hazel eyes was unmistakable. “Well met, Lord Gray!” she greeted him warmly.
Julian’s pulse leapt a little. But he grimaced the moment he became aware of it. He’d do well to remind himself that the lass was a source of information and naught else.
Joining her side, he grasped the dagger and yanked it free to heft it in his hand. Although it was polished brightly with a sharp edge and solid leather-corded hilt, it was clearly of inferior quality and would not endure much use. Recalling the skillful way she’d maneuvered his own knives against him, it should not have been surprising that the lass could tell a good dagger from a bad one, but still he couldn’t help but glance at her in bewildered admiration.
And then turning to address the craggy-faced blacksmith, he tossed the weapon to him, “The lady is right. ‘Tis a trinket, not a real dagger. And though I dinna know what cause she has to arm herself, surely, ye have finer wares to show?”
“Well then,” the man grunted in mild irritation. “Give me a moment. I might have another.” Grumbling, he disappeared into the shop.
Julian’s cheek creased into a grin as he glanced down at Liselle.
“I thank you for your assistance, Lord Gray,” she purred sweetly, yet there was a decidedly wicked glint in her eyes. But then, casting a quick glance over her shoulder, she suddenly swore, “Orponón!”
Following her gaze, Julian caught only a brief glimpse of Pascal striding their way before Liselle caught his wrist, and pulling him into the blacksmith’s shop, shoved him out of view.
“And who—” he began, but she silenced him with a swift jab in the ribs and then clamped her hand firmly over his mouth.
“Not a sound!” she whispered, holding a warning finger up to her lips.
So the wee lass sought to hide him from her cousin, did she? But even as he wondered why, her presence invaded his thoughts and he became aware of just how close she was pressed against him. He felt the beating of her heart against his chest. And as the light perfume of her hair teased his nostrils, all other thoughts fled, save the temptation of burying his face in the wealth of her honey-colored tresses.
Slowly, he lifted his hand and twisted the escaped curl around his finger.
Liselle froze.
A genuine spark of desire rippled through him, and as he looked deeply into her amber-colored eyes, he was certain he saw in them an answering flicker.
He didn’t know how long he stood there, pressed close with his fingers entwined in her hair, but suddenly his reason returned, and he let his hand drop.
Aye, how could he forget, even for a moment, that the lass was of the most devious kind? He sought information from her, nothing more. And while
he’d never encountered a lass more bewitching he knew it was never more important to remind himself—repeatedly—that she was treacherous.
Swallowing hard, he pulled himself away and broke the spell.
It was not a moment too soon.
He had been dangerously close to kissing her.
Taking a deep breath, he recovered enough to grin down at her with a roguish lift of his brow. “Evading your cousin, are ye?”
“Cousin?” she repeated, glancing sideways at him in surprise. “How did you know that man was Pascal?”
“The lad introduced himself,” he explained with a chuckle. “He seems an interesting fellow. Reminds me of the sort who can make a man disappear or find one who doesna want to be found.” He studied her face for any sign of a reaction.
Liselle’s brows tangled into a frown, and her voice took on a somber cast as she replied, “‘Tis true, my lord, that is why for your sake, I pray you’re a man of many skills. My cousin will not take it kindly when he finds you’ve been following me.”
Julian tilted his head to the side. He hadn’t expected such a gloomy response. And before he knew it, he was once again standing close, cupping her cheek with his hand and wondering what he could do to wipe the sorrow from her brow.
Ach, he scowled at himself.
Did he have no willpower at all?
Clenching his jaw, he backed away once again, and excusing himself with a bow, quit the place as fast as he could.
* * *
Liselle watched Julian stride away in the direction of the castle. The man became more of a distraction every time they met. How could any woman resist his charm?
She stared after him for a moment, biting her lip.
And then she rolled her eyes at herself. She was no swooning maid! No, she was an assassin, or would soon be one!
She had mysteries to unravel, and the strange doings of her contemptuous cousin to decipher.
There was no time in her life for one Lord Julian Gray.
Gathering her skirts, she set off towards the castle, picking her way through the mire as raindrops once again rippled the puddles. Cold mud oozed into her shoe and she grimaced. Venice was never so cold and miserable!
