by B. A. Morton
Pushing open the heavy wooden door, Miles stood in the doorway a moment while his eyes adjusted to the dark and smoky interior. He counted six men at the bar and another ten sitting in groups of two or three at tables. They all turned to assess him and he rightly judged his position as precarious. He resisted the urge to grip the handle of his dagger as he made his way through the cramped space to the bar. The innkeeper broke off his conversation with two kilted clansmen.
“What can a git ye, stranger?”
Miles indicated the barrel of ale with a nod of his head. He was loath to speak as he would immediately be known as not only English but of noble birth and an enemy, but he had come here for a reason.
“I’m looking for Alexander of the Stewart clan.” All eyes in the building turned to look and all ears tuned in to listen.
“Ah dinnae ken the man.” The innkeeper slammed a jug of ale down onto the bar, slopping the contents over Miles’ outstretched hand.
Miles ignored the animosity and nodded. “I’ll sit and wait awhile. Perhaps he’ll hear I need to speak with him.”
“As ah say, ah dinnae ken yon man, but who are ye t’be askin’ for him?”
“Miles, Miles of Wildewood.” In his peripheral vision Miles saw two of the previously seated men rise and leave the building with a nod at the innkeeper. His message was sent.
He chose to sit at a small table with his back to the wall. One hand held the obligatory mug of ale while the other gripped his knife hidden beneath the folds of his cloak. The other drinkers viewed him with mistrust and he avoided eye contact with them. He was not there to start a fight which he could not win, he was merely waiting. It did not take long for word of his arrival to reach the ears of the man he wished to meet, and two jugs later Alexander Stewart pulled up a chair opposite and sat down.
Miles studied the man in silence for a moment. He was thickset, with a shock of carrot-coloured hair worn long and tied at the nape with a leather thong. He carried a jagged scar across his left cheek which parted his beard and continued under his chin. It was an old scar but still vivid, and it caught the eye of the casual onlooker. Those who knew the man saw it as a mark of his valour; those who did not would have been repulsed by its severity. He wore the traditional weave of his clan and carried a short sword tucked into his belt.
“I see you still prefer to wear a skirt, Alex,” said Miles. “Aren’t you concerned you’ll be mistaken for a maid? This place is packed with randy men. I’d be watching my back if I were you.”
Alex ignored the jibe. “What brings yer this side o’ the border, Miles?”
“You owe me.”
“An yer plan tae collect?”
“I do.”
Alex gestured to the inn keeper to bring more drinks. He loosened his sword he placed it on the table between them.
“When did ye git back?”
“I’ve been back in England a matter of weeks, just a few days back at Wildewood.”
“So, what can ah dae for yer, Miles?”
“I need two things, Alex, and then we’ll call it quits. The first is the loan of a good man to carry a message to the Bishop of Durham. He must be discreet and trustworthy.”
“Do ye no have such a man of yer ain?”
“I have men who are discreet and trustworthy, yes.” He thought of Tom Pandy, Berryman and John. “But none are suitable for this task.”
“Sounds like yer up to somethin’, Miles. Does it have anything tae dae wi yon young lassie-and mibbe a ransom?”
Miles tried hard to hide his surprise. “How do you know about that?”
“Miles, Miles,” he shook his head and smiled, “the whole o’ Coquetdale kens aboot yer wee secret. It disnae tak much for news to trickle North. What’s she like?”
“It doesn’t matter what she’s like,” Miles replied shortly. How had word got out? No one knew but himself and Edmund and the boy had spoken to no one. He recalled the sheriff’s interest. “What are they saying?”
Alex shrugged. “They’re sayin’ you’ve been fleeced, that yon lassie’s a spy.”
Miles stomach muscles tightened. “What do you mean a spy? She’s from Kirk Knowe.”
“Is she? Nay one there has heard o’ her. Gerard thinks she’s been sent by yer English king, Edward.”
“Gerard, why would he think that?”
“Because Gerard is no yer king’s favourite baron at the moment and he’s become a wee bit mistrustful.”
“Indeed?” Now that did interest Miles.
Alex leaned forward conspiratorially. “You’ve been away a lang time, Miles. Gerard was a wee shite then, an he’s a bigger shite now. Folk never forgave him for what happened tae yer mother, even though he might protest it was an accident.”
Miles knew it was no accident. He had been there, just a boy with his mother walking in the parkland, when Gerard and his hunting party had mown down his mother with their horses. Gerard claimed his horse was spooked but Miles had seen the look of triumph on his face.
“Why would that interest the king?”
“Gerard’s been gittin worse, a bloated boar stuffed full o’ his ain importance, and that yon king of yers is gittin a wee bit weary o’ the complaints. There was a rumour some crusader booty destined for the royal coffers mysteriously disappeared on its way back from the Holy land an’ Gerard’s name was mentioned, but nuthin could be proven or found. Then he had Walter de Sweethope imprisoned at yon castle. God nays whit that was aboot, likely some pissing match between rivals, an’ Edward was obliged tae intervene tae get him freed. That wisnae the first time either. Ye heard aboot William Douglas the year yer left? Gerard has developed a likin’ for a full dungeon. Let’s just say he wisnae best-pleased at Edward’s intervention, nor was he enamoured the king gave Wildewood back tae yer, and he’s been mekin’ his mooth go. He thinks the king has him marked and somehow yon lassie is involved.”
“She’s not a spy.”
“Are ye sure?”
Miles considered this carefully and the truthful answer was no, he wasn’t sure. He sat back in his chair and swirled the dregs at the bottom of his mug. He’d come here with a simple plan to get a messenger to take his ransom demand to the bishop. If the bishop agreed terms then he would deliver Grace back to Kirk Knowe himself, picking up the ransom and using it to repair Wildewood.
It was a little too simplistic he realised.
Thinking back to when they’d found her, he’d been so sure no one had been in the forest. At the time he couldn’t understand how she’d got past his trips and markers. If Edmund hadn’t accidently shot her with his bow, would she have stumbled in to his camp anyway and made up a story to ensure she was taken to Ahlborett Castle, to Gerard? She kept insisting she wasn’t a nun and she wanted to go home. Was that because she had a job to do for the king? If Grace had indeed been sent by the king to undermine Gerard’s position of power then they actually had something in common, a score to settle with Gerard. And then there was the sheriff who was not out looking for a missing nun but had been more than a little interested in Grace.
“No, I’m not sure, Alex. Some things don’t add up. She’s certainly different and has been untruthful about things, trivial things, but she’s lied nevertheless.”
“You’re holding her agin her will, Miles. Why should she respect yer wi’ the truth?” answered Alex.
“You’re right but I’ve always considered myself a good judge of character. I had my suspicions but deep down I believed her to be genuine.”
“She may well be, Miles. Ah’m only repeatin’ what ah’ve heard. Yer ken, people dinnae always tell the truth, for a variety o’ reasons and no always bad yens. Perhaps she’s a feared.” He paused with a smirk. “After all yer dae hiv a reputation...”
“Perhaps.”
“Hiv yer heard from Hugh o’ late?” asked Alex.
“Hugh?”
“Aye, Hugh de Reynard, ye ken, the man who took ye under his wing when yer mother died, the man who turned yer into a
knight, who helped make ye the fine English lord ye are today.”
Miles smiled, “Oh, that Hugh. No I haven’t heard from him since I returned to England.”
“Ah hear he’s in Lincoln.”
“You hear an awful lot, Alex.”
“Yer should look him up. He can mibbe help yer wi’ all o’ this.”
“Are you trying to say you can’t?” asked Miles.
Alex spread his hands wide. “Miles, if ye want a messenger tae dae yer biddin’, yer can have one, but ah dinnae ken it’ll dae yer any good. It’s no the bishop who wants the lassie, its Gerard de Frouville’ an’ somehow I dinnae ken you’ll want to trade wi him. If yer short o’ funds then we can always dae some business.”
Miles shook his head. He knew the kind of business Alex operated and had no wish to be hung as a thief.
“Or go an’ see Hugh, mibbe he can shed some light o’ the situation. He has the kings ear now, by a’ accounts.”
“I thought Hugh was off Edward’s list.”
“Things change, Miles. Ye need tae learn tae keep up.”
Miles stood and held out his hand; it was time he left. He could do no more here and Alex’s theory that Gerard might be after Grace concerned him greatly. If the whole of Coquetdale knew of her existence then it would be reasonable to assume Gerard would know Wildewood had no men at arms and the girl was unprotected. “Thank you, Alex. I think you may be correct about the bishop.”
“Whit dae ye plan tae dae, Miles?”
“I need to get back and speak to the girl.”
“Rest a while. It’s past dark. You’ll travel nae further tonight.”
Miles hesitated. Alex was right, it was foolhardy to travel after dark. He sat back down and accepted another drink.
“So what’s the second thing ah can dae for yer, Miles?”
Miles grinned. “I need a pony, one that won’t get me hung if the sheriff looks upon it. A lady’s palfrey, something finely built. Do you have anything?”
“For yer young lassie, Miles?”
Miles nodded.
“Whit size?”
Miles gestured to just under his chin. “She’s about this tall and light as a feather.”
Alex grinned. “Ah meant the pony, what size pony? You’ve got it bad, Miles. The sooner yer decide whit tae dae wi’ her the better.”
Miles scowled. “Have you anything suitable or not?”
Alex narrowed his eyes as he considered. “As it happens, ah have a wee grey filly. She’s young an still a wee green, but wi’ a gentle hand she’ll make a fine ladies mount. She’s yer’s if ye want her.”
“Thank you, Alex, that would be grand,” he sighed wearily. He hadn’t had any real rest, not since he’d got caught up with Grace. He rubbed his eyes and scanned the room distractedly. Most of the men had left and a serving girl was collecting the empty jugs. She looked at him from beneath lowered lashes and her invitation was unmistakable. Miles shook his head; he was not in the mood. Alex gestured one of the men over and spoke quietly to him. Nodding, the man pulled his cloak around him and left the inn. Miles assumed he’d gone to get the pony.
“So ah still owe ye, then?” asked Alex and it took a moment for Miles to register he’d been spoken to.
“No, you don’t owe me. The information and advice were payment enough. The pony is an added bonus.”
“Ye once saved ma life, Miles,” answered Alex and his hand strayed to his scar. “Ah think ah still owe ye. Let me know if ah can return the favour.”
“Let’s hope I never need to call it in.”
“A word o’ advice, Miles, though ah doubt ye’ll take it…”
“Go on.”
“Be careful. Yer playing a dangerous game, wi’ people who have far more tae lose than ye. Make sure ye dinnae get caught up in the thrill o’ the game an’ lose sight o’ the prize.”
* * *
It was just gone dawn when Miles left the ale house. He was bone weary and certainly not alert after an evening of drinking ale with Alex, but it was a clear morning with a touch of frost and he followed a well-trodden path. Even so, it took all of his willpower to stay awake and in the saddle for the long journey back.
He led the grey pony on a long lead rope tied to his saddle and it was indeed a pretty filly. It kept pace with his horse with no real effort which was just as well as he pushed both animals hard to get back. He had an increasing sense of urgency. Things were beginning to unravel. He had to get back.
The sun made its appearance as he entered the great forest which protected Wildewood from the north. The horses were weary and gratefully slowed their pace to negotiate the hidden trails between the trees. Miles slid his feet from the stirrups and stretched his legs trying to regain some circulation. Although it hadn’t snowed, the morning remained frosty and he was chilled to the bone. He imagined the hot bath he would take when he eventually got back and he forced his drooping eyelids to stay open, not much further to go. The horse, having no further impetus from its rider, slowed to a walk and Miles closed his eyes and slumped against the horse’s neck.
He woke when he slid from the horse’s back and hit the ground with a thump. His left shoulder took the full force of the fall and he swore as he staggered back to wakefulness. Rising slowly he gathered up the reins of his horse and the filly. The horse whickered softly and Miles was suddenly aware he was not alone in the forest. He willed the horses to stay silent and crouched still, straining to hear.
The soldiers passed within ten yards of where he hid, and so busy were they with their conversation and so ineffectual in their observations, they saw neither him nor his beasts. By their livery he could tell they were Gerard’s men. They were on foot and they totalled eight men at arms.
He quickly tried to assess his position in relation to Wildewood. He’d been travelling through Gerard’s land since he’d crossed back over the border. Had Gerard been alerted, were these soldiers looking for him? He was still an hour’s ride from Wildewood. He couldn’t afford to get involved in an altercation with Gerard before he had a chance to speak to Grace. He remained still and silent, and after what seemed an agonisingly long time, the soldiers moved on and Miles was able to remount his horse and press on to Wildewood.
Chapter Seventeen
Miles made it back by mid-morning. He spent the remainder of his journey turning over in his mind the seeds of doubt which Alex had inadvertently sown. It left him in poor humour and irrationally suspicious of Grace. Who was this cuckoo in the nest, what was her purpose? Pulling his horse to a standstill in the courtyard, he barked at Edmund who was busy in the stables.
“Edmund, get these gates shut and barred. Where is Grace?” He swung down from the saddle, the horse skittering away from him in alarm. “Where is she?” he snapped.
“In the kitchen, my lord, she be helpin’ Martha...”
He would get the truth if it killed him...or her. He’d come home to Wildewood with his own plans, to re-establish the estate and exact his revenge on Gerard. He’d initially been distracted by the ransom he could get for Grace, then he’d been similarly distracted by the notion of keeping her for himself and foregoing the ransom. She was a distraction, there was no denying it. But was that her ultimate plan all along? He recalled the night in the great hall. He’d thought himself the victor of the game. The idea that he may have been the one being played and bested did not sit well. He had played the chivalrous knight on that occasion, but the rules had just changed. He would not make that mistake again.
Bursting into the room, he found her seated at the table with Linus, painting. She, the child and Martha started with fright as he slammed the door closed behind him. Ignoring Martha and Linus he crossed the room, gripped Grace firmly by her arm and pulled her to her feet.
“I would speak with you, in private.”
Grace’s protestations went unheeded as Miles marched her back across the courtyard and into the great hall. Tom Pandy rose from tending the fire to stare in wonder as Miles stro
de across the hall without comment and proceeded to propel Grace up the stairs to her chamber. Grace finally came to her senses as they approached her door and tried to slow his progress by setting her feet against the floor, but he simply pushed her harder. Once in her chamber he flung her aside and slammed the door, drawing home the bolt with a resounding clash.
He narrowed his eyes, cocked his head and drew a long calming breath. It would not do to lose control.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” cried Grace, fury and fear competing on her outraged face.
“Mademoiselle, what do you know of the king?”
Grace stared back at him blankly. “The king?”
“No more games,” he said coldly, his composure reined in and held with an unsteady hand. “What is your connection to Edward?” He caught the revealing look of alarm on her face before she controlled it. Her continuing deceit caused his gut to twist along with his patience.
“I don’t know what you mean. I’m not playing games. I’ve never met any king.”
Miles could barely look at her. It seemed Alex had been correct and he had been fleeced after all. He dropped his gaze, studied the weathered boards beneath her feet and counted to ten silently. She was treading a hazardous path between falsehood and truth, but not quite carefully enough. He could easily force the truth from her; it would be a simple task for one as well trained as he. A hand at her throat, a blade between her ribs, it could be done in seconds and she would be begging to reveal all she knew. Instead he raised his head and said softly. “You are not of the church?”
“I told you I wasn’t. You didn’t believe me.”
“Yet you say you come from Kirk Knowe?”
“Yes.”
“Kirk Knowe is a chapel. What is your purpose there, if you are not a religious?”
“It’s complicated,” replied Grace. “I live there in a cottage. I told you this. I haven’t lied to you. I also told you I want to go home.” She faltered as he shook his head dismissively. “What’s happened? Why are you behaving like this..?”
“What do you know of Gerard de Frouville’?” he asked, and again caught a flair of recognition in her eyes. She couldn’t lie to save her life. It was time she understood that only the truth could save her.
