by Aileen Adams
She opened the door, then led the horse through before closing it with care.
Inside the walls, as always, a flurry of activity greeted her. The eastern courtyard was where young women only starting out as members of the Order learned rudimentary combat skills. There were currently seven such girls in the process of learning how to disarm their enemies.
Before her stood the abbey itself, towering four stories above her head, the archways open to the corridors which ran along the outsides of each floor. Inside, the rooms were arranged in what Margaret thought of as a beehive. She’d seen a hive of bees once on a farm as she passed through, and the tight grouping of cells with no passageways between reminded her of her home.
She left the horse by the door, knowing one of the younger girls would retrieve it. The younger ones did the work of keeping the horses, scrubbing the floors, cooking, washing the clothing and linens. Work Margaret was glad to see behind her, sometimes requiring a body to stay awake through the night and well into the following day.
All in service of the Order, and of one’s sisters.
This, perhaps more than anything else, weighed heavily upon Margaret’s conscience. By refusing to perform her duty, she’d done more than fail herself. She’d failed the Order and might bring them under suspicion. Those who called upon the Order and paid handsomely to do so might decide in an instant to reconsider their allegiance.
Her sisters might suffer as a result of this. She’d put them all in danger of being discovered, for while Earl Remington may have been happy to agree to silence with the point of a dagger at his throat and his son’s life in danger, a week in which to contemplate his situation might have changed his mind.
An assassin had made an attempt on his life. From where had this assassin come? And were there more of her?
All of this formed a disjointed chorus in Margaret’s troubled mind as she slipped through the courtyard and through one of the archways, then down the corridor and up two flights of smooth stone stairs. She’d scrubbed those stairs countless times, scrubbed until her bare knees had bled and her arms lost feeling up to her shoulders.
Her humble chamber was just as she’d left it, all but barren of decoration or life. A straw tick in one corner, a washbasin, a small chest.
When she’d trained to pass for royalty, she’d spent months in one of the much grander bedchambers on the fourth floor. She’d learned the proper table manners for those of the French court, the appropriate titles for each level of English nobility, how to behave as a duchess or a mere lady’s maid.
Learning to lose herself in her given name, her rank, all of it at the whim of those who arranged such things. Mother Cressida, most likely, whose regal bearing and imperious tone caused Margaret to question whether she was truly royalty in disguise.
The other women, the “Mothers” who served alongside Mother Cressida, oversaw their charges—training, educating, stripping away each layer of what made each girl an individual until nothing was left but sharp, unbending focus and dependence on the whole.
For without the whole, without her sisters, Margaret was nothing. She knew this. Her actions were never in service of herself, but of the whole.
Hence the gnawing, wrenching guilt which never seemed to leave the forefront of her thoughts. She’d betrayed them, each and every one. Even those she was not yet permitted to know, as the youngest of the Order lived away from the rest. As she had when she’d first come to the abbey.
She’d betrayed them all by shirking her duty.
If the Mothers discovered this, there could only be one end. One punishment fitting of a crime so grievous.
Her only hope was that they’d never discover her failure.
Yet it was inevitable that they would. They knew everything, had eyes and ears everywhere.
Why had she returned? Now that she sat on the tick bed, staring at the blank, windowless wall before her, the reasons for making the return journey seemed less pressing than they had before.
And far more dangerous.
Why return at all? She might simply have disappeared, never setting foot inside the abbey walls again. They might have taken her absence as a sign that she’d met a bad end—before meeting the earl, naturally.
She might have begun a new life elsewhere.
Impossible.
She rose to her feet, shaking her head, splashing her face with ice-cold water from the basin. No, there was no life outside the abbey. Outside the circle of her sisters. They were part of her body, an arm or a leg which she could not live without. She was the same for them. They worked, breathed, lived as a whole.
There was no life without them.
There was no Margaret without them.
A knock at the door startled her, and it was not until her fingers closed around the handle of the dagger still tucked inside her boot that she caught herself. Why would she need a weapon against one of her sisters?
Knock-knock knock knock-knock.
She relaxed, releasing the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Only Gabriella used that special series of knocks to signal her presence. Margaret was quick to open the door to her closest sister.
If she’d had a real sister, Gabriella would be it.
Arms embraced her before the door was closed. “I was so afraid for you.”
“For me?” Margaret pulled back, alarmed.
Never had they expressed physical affection before then, not in all the years they’d lived and trained and sweated and shivered together. Never, even when their work took them to France, when Margaret had plunged her dagger into the back of the guard who’d been mere seconds from killing Gabriella, had they ever embraced each other.
Gabriella’s raven-black hair flowed over her shoulders when she nodded. She bore the coloring of one who’d come from unknown lands, far away, where men and women spoke foreign tongues unknown even to the likes of the Order. Languages and accents were just as crucial to training of those in the Order as physical combat and knowledge of herbs and poisons.
None of the women of the Order knew where they’d come from, who’d birthed them. There were whispers among the younger and thus less discreet of her sisters that they’d all been stolen from their parents, parents who’d come from royalty. That they, themselves, were of royal blood.
This was merely the dream of the orphan, Margaret supposed. All orphans wanted to believe themselves unique, to believe their having been left without parents was the result of cruel or mercenary behavior. That perhaps their parents were looking for them to that very day.
Thinking like this had been trained out of Margaret at an early age. It mattered not who’d birthed her, for Mother had trained her to be who she’d become. There was nothing else.
Even so, it left her to wonder when she noted how very different all of her sisters were just where they’d come from…
“They know,” Gabriella hissed, her dark eyes wide. “They know you left him.”
She might argue. She might claim there had been a mistake, that someone had played them false. What purpose would that serve when her sister appeared to know the truth?
“How?” was all she would ask, her body going rigid.
“I know not. Why did you do it? You? You’ve never—”
“His son was with him. A wee lad. How could I?” Margaret’s stomach turned at the emotion which crept into her voice. She hardened, but that did not erase the memory of the lad’s innocent eyes. “I was not there to dispatch a child. Only the earl and his driver. No more.”
“Oh, Margaret.” Gabriella’s voice cracked, betraying the emotion she, too, strove to suppress.
“You do not need to tell me how wrong I was.” Margaret walked from one end of the cramped room to the other. It did not take long. She wrung her hands. “They shall wish to see me.”
“They will, and shortly.”
“I have no choice. Do I?”
Their gazes locked, and Margaret wished most fervently that she possessed the words to expr
ess what her sister—what all her sisters—meant to her.
Especially when warning her of impending execution might bring severe punishment upon Gabriella’s head.
“Go. You must. Now. I’ll tell no one of having seen you.”
In a burst of emotion, Margaret embraced her. “Thank you,” she whispered, squeezing tight.
There was nothing to take along, as she owned nothing but the clothing on her back. She might steal anything else as it became necessary.
The only other thing she’d take with her was a horse, as she would need one. Swift, sure-footed, strong. Able to cover vast expanses of ground in little time.
Where would she go? This question presented itself as she stepped out of her chambers, back against the cold, stone wall. She might obtain passage to France. She might return to England. But sailing from Aberdeen would mean leaving herself at the mercy of a captain and his crew, and she was uncertain of their trustworthiness.
If one of her beautiful, clever sisters approached them and inquired of a young woman traveling alone, they’d more than likely speak before thinking twice.
No, she ought to travel over land. West. She’d put the Cairngorns between them and continue from there.
Training continued in the courtyard. She heard the sounds of grunting, of fists hitting bodies. How clearly she remembered those days. How dearly she wished she wouldn’t need to call upon that training now, against her sisters.
Staying close to the walls with eyes focused straight ahead, she floated down the stairs on light feet. This was nothing at all, as simple as one of her missions. She’d slipped in and out more bedchambers and private studies than she could remember. She could certainly make it past her sisters without notice.
Would that Gabriella were the only one of them to know of her betrayal. This seemed to be the case, as no one stopped her or thought twice of her walking among them. She was simply the most gifted assassin in the abbey and was going about her business. Nothing more.
Even so, her pounding heart betrayed the rising panic she could not seem to control. Panic was wasteful, panic slowed a body down.
None of her training mattered. None of her admonitions mattered.
All that mattered was getting out, then getting far away.
The mare she’d ridden in from the harbor still waited, still saddled. The girls tasked with caring for the horses had not as yet the time to groom the beast. This was for the best.
She led it by the reins, her gaze focused on the door in the wall through which she’d just passed. The knowledge that she’d never step foot through it again weighed heavy on her heart—along with the knowledge that if she stayed, the women she’d called Mother from her first arrival at the abbey would order her execution.
This knowing, bitter though it was, made passing through and mounting the mare on the other side easier. It made riding away from the abbey, never slowing until the towering walls were nothing but a smudge on the horizon, a victory rather than a hardship.
Even as she left behind everything and everyone she’d ever known.
4
The streets of Andershire thrummed with activity on that early autumn morning. Weathered old women sold potatoes and apples, onions and carrots, all piled high in wooden carts. They called out to passersby, shouting the prices as though that would be enough to entice a man with no intention of purchasing an onion that morning.
Two farmers led a herd of dairy cows down the widest street which ran through the heart of the village and had only recently been officially named in honor of Clan Anderson. The honorable Padraig Anderson had seen to the improvement of several village homes and places of business, and had even taken hand in the planning of a new church.
The poorly-dressed errand boy slipping back and forth between groups of visitors and sidestepping the muck which ran in a river between the road and the buildings lining that main street wondered who Padraig Anderson thought he was, allowing a village to be named for him. When the lad ran errands for the women who lived just outside the village proper, he wondered if he’d see the man himself and find out what a man with a village that bore his name looked like.
Perhaps if he’d truly been a lad instead of a woman in disguise, he would not think about such things at all. An errand boy working to fetch refreshment and personal goods for women who sold their bodies for a few pence would likely spend his waking moments wishing for a glimpse behind the doors which closed whenever a new patron was to be entertained.
Questions regarding Clan Anderson would be the furthest thing from his mind.
But he wasn’t a he, at all.
No, he was a woman on the run.
Margaret’s head itched beneath the hat she always drew low over her eyes whenever she stepped out of doors. The heat of having her hair piled thick beneath it had caused sweat to trickle along her scalp, leaving her half-mad with the need to scratch.
There was other heat, too, such as the heat between her breasts and the bindings she used to hold them tight to her chest. For early autumn, it was quite warm outside, and hurrying through the village brought out beads of sweat along her skin. She longed to free herself, to allow the air to cool her overheated skin, but the discomfort was of little concern when it came to protecting her life.
Without the Order’s welfare in mind, the protection of her life became of chief concern. In a village such as Andershire, it was easy for a person to disappear. Especially when they’d been carefully trained in the art of disappearance.
The first stop was always to the tavern, where the man who owned the establishment knew her on sight. Without fail, upon seeing her step over the threshold and onto the straw-strewn floor, he held out both hands to take the empty buckets which she’d carried with her from the house.
While the tavernkeeper filled one with wine and the other with ale—since guests of the house often required refreshment, just as the women working inside did—Margaret’s eyes swept over the room, half-hidden by the brim of her hat.
An old habit, one she knew she’d never get out of her system and frankly had no desire to. A watchful eye kept her safe, and when combined with the rough, bulky clothing of a lad in her position, it served as a shield of sorts against the gaze of men.
At this time of day, the tavern was all but empty except for one or two unhappy souls who drank their first mug of mead early in the day and likely never stopped until the tavern closed. She’d never known men such as this existed, her training and education involving those a bit higher up in the world.
It took effort to pry her gaze from them when the tavernkeeper grunted, telling her he’d finished the job. She left a handful of coins before him and hurried out, head down, shoulders straining thanks to the weight in both hands.
Another stop, this time at the inn. She passed a stable and the blacksmith beyond, before stepping into the dark, low-ceilinged building.
“Ah, good morning to ye,” the pleasant innkeeper bade with a smile.
She merely nodded in reply, her head low as always in hopes he would not look closely at her.
Despite taking pains to dirty her face and hide her shape, there lingered the chance of a man taking her for what she was.
This was never a concern while in the house outside the village, no matter how many men walked in and out over the course of a day. Her protectors—the women of the house—took pains to conceal her true self.
Another part of life she’d had little knowledge of until now. She’d known such women existed, of course, and that they sold themselves in order to live. It was all they had to offer and no other options.
She blamed them not, for she’d done what she could that she might survive. There were some who would curse her for that, spit upon her as they wished to spit upon these generous souls who concealed her, protected her, kept her secrets.
Into the leather bag hanging from a strap across her body went two loaves of bread, a half-wheel of cheese, and apples. She nodded in silent thanks, unwilling to give
herself away by speaking, then lifted her buckets and began the walk back to the house.
Never look the villagers in the eye. This was a rule she strove always to follow, as catching the eye of a curious stranger might well lead to trouble. It was unusual, being near so many strangers at once. All her life, she’d been trained to stay away from crowds unless making an escape—then, the presence of many others would be a blessing, as she might disappear with little effort.
Now, she had no choice but to weave in and out of passing groups, to turn sideways so as to avoid them crashing into her buckets and sending wine or ale sloshing about. Men leered at her even when dressed as a lad, likely because of her small stature and what they perceived to be weakness as a result.
This was just the thought on her mind—her perceived weakness, how some might mistake her slight build—when she turned down the narrow alley between two rows of cottages. The house was just beyond this stretch where the village’s poorest citizens made their homes.
“Aye, lad.”
There was no chance of her avoiding a collision with the tall, broad man who moved in front of her just a moment too late for her to stop short. She staggered back, the buckets throwing off her balance, but managed to remain on her feet.
A glance upward revealed little, as the brim of her hat was still pulled low. She moved away from him on instinct, intent on turning about and running to the main street if necessity called for it. Better to appear cowardly than to be forced to fight.
She was not afraid to fight, naturally. Only afraid of her identity being discovered when she put her skills to use.
“I said, aye.” The man’s ham-sized fist closed over her shoulder before she could fully turn, and she soon saw that running would have been a waste of precious energy.
A pair of brutes closed in from behind her, blocking her way.
“What—what’dya want?” she grunted, deepening her voice and affecting a thick brogue. “I’ve nothin’ for ye.”
