“So-o-o!” He brought his hand down on the table, striking the wood so hard the ale cups jumped. “I’ve warned my patrons to stay away. The lasses are cleaning the rooms, should they be needed.”
“Worthies, eh?” Roag cocked a brow. “Good to take care then. Suchlike are the same the world o’er. A dust mote twirling the wrong way and they’ll be for demanding your head. Or”—he slid a wolfish look at Sorley—“are they bringing along ladies? If so, my friend here—”
“I am no’ your friend, you buffoon.” Sorley didn’t allow him to finish.
For the oddest reason, his gut had tightened when the innkeeper mentioned visiting nobles. Worse, the fine hairs on his nape lifted, and that was a sign he never ignored. His instincts served him well.
“Do you ken who these gentlefolk are?” He kept his gaze on Wyldes, not daring to look at Roag lest the blackguard guess his thoughts.
For that reason, he didn’t dare ask if the guests were Highlanders.
“Nae, no one saw fit to tell me their names.” Wyldes shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. “You needn’t worry you’ll miss a delectable lass.” He winked at Roag. “The men are scholars. Most learned, by the sound of it. Scribes, clerks, and that ilk, I’m sure. Suchlike willnae have fetching misses with them.”
“Quill-wielders and ink-fingers?” Roag nearly choked. “What would they want at the Red Lion?”
Wyldes gripped the table edge and leaned forward. “Queer folk, I say you.” He lowered his voice, casting a glance at the inn’s main door. “I was told they plan to climb on the roof to examine the lichen and moss up there. Odin only knows what they hope to discover.”
“Odd, indeed.” Roag waved a hand through a drift of smoke wafting past them from one of the lanterns. “Whate’er, you’d best put fresh oil in the lamps before they arrive. On the other hand,” he sounded amused, “if they’re after slate moss and lichen rather than your ale and fine roasted meats, like as no’ they’ll no’ notice a bit of candle grease and lamp smoke in the air.
“Eh, Hawk?” Roag half-rose from his chair to punch Sorley’s arm. “Such fools could probably eat a plate of bog peat and no’ ken what they’re putting in their bellies. Nothing but their books and scrolls interests them.”
Sorley scarce heard him.
He had caught Wyldes’s calling the men learned.
Mirabelle’s father was a known scholar. Hadn’t she claimed they were in Stirling so he could assist the King’s scribes in translating ancient Gaelic medicinal texts? Could lichen and moss be used for healing? Sorley was sure he’d heard the like somewhere.
With his luck of late, the party of nobles would be MacLarens. For sure, Lady Mirabelle would be along. Meeting her here, at the Red Lion, was the last thing he needed. He especially didn’t want to run into her when he was leaving the inn.
Hoping to avoid such a disaster, he pushed back his chair and stood.
“I must be away.” He shot a glance at a door in a corner of the inn. It led to the rear yard and stables. He turned to the innkeeper, hoping Roag would take his leave. “Have you readied a horse?”
“I’ve done better.” The big man grinned, likewise pushing to his feet. “You’ll find two of my sorriest nags saddled and waiting for you. And”—his deep voice took on a conspiratorial tone—“o’er by the well, there’s a bucket of fresh-reeking muck. Horse and cow manure.
“If the smell doesn’t convince Lockhart you’re beggars or lepers, nothing will.” Stepping back, he winked. Unfortunately, Sorley was anything but happy.
He’d planned to address the matter of Sir Henry Lockhart on his own
Before he could argue, Roag appeared at his elbow, stepping around him so that his bulk blocked Sorley’s retreat.
Cocking his head to the side, he fixed Sorley with a determined stare. “When the wind whistles…” He let the code words trail away, waiting for Sorley to acknowledge that his reason for being here came from the crown.
Sorley glared at him.
He didn’t want to answer.
Direct reference to Fenris the Wolf, their namesake in Norse mythology, was aye a serious matter. As son of the trickster god, Loki, the wolf was only mentioned when circumstances, and orders, brooked no argument.
So…
Sorley pulled a hand down over his chin and peered up at the smoke-blackened rafters.
He tried not to swear. It wasn’t easy.
“When the wind whistles,” he finally repeated the secret phrase, “a wolf is sharpening his teeth.”
“Aye, so they say.” Roag beamed and punched his arm again. “And those with reason to believe warn that Lockhart isn’t acting alone.”
“Traitors to their country usually do have helpers.” Sorley knew it well. “I’ll handle them on my own.”
Roag shrugged. “Think you I wish to don an already rancid wayfarer’s robe and then smear it and myself with dung?”
“Then stay here. I’ll no’ force you to ride with me.”
“I will all the same.” Roag leaned in, all mirth gone. “Truth is, for reasons I cannae explain, I’d go with you whether King Robert wished it or nae. No man should deal with a worm like Lockhart only to feel a dagger sinking into his back when he turns to ride away.”
“Hummph.” Sorley couldn’t deny such a truth, so he strode across the long room to where Wyldes stood by the door to the rear yard.
“Come, then.” He glanced over his shoulder at Roag. “The day is aging and my fists are itching to crush bone, my blade calling for blood.”
Roag joined him, shaking his head. “No blood will spill at all if Lockhart sees you and notices the bloodlust in your eye. He’ll be away before—”
“You talk too much.” Sorley grabbed Roag’s elbow and pulled him through the door Wyldes held wide.
The reek from the muck barrel the innkeeper had prepared hit them at once, the stink almost blinding. As Wyldes had promised, the barrel stood near the well, as did two of the sorriest-looking horses Sorley had ever seen.
He doubted they’d make the few steps out of the stableyard, much less the day’s journey.
Sorley might not either with the perfume of manure clinging to him.
At least the weather was fine.
It was a bright morning, cold and crisp. The sun shone, its light dappling the cobbles where the rays slanted through the trees. Few clouds marred the brilliant blue of the sky and all that stood between Sorley and his day’s work was the road that wound away through the piney woods and then across the open countryside to his destination, the ruined Abbey of St. Mary and the wee riverside village and wharf that belonged to the ancient holy site.
Much damaged in the wars with the English, their armies taking pleasure in violating sacred Scottish ground, it was a place that should never be soiled by the likes of Sir Henry and his perfidy.
Sorley’s head began to pound again. A muscle jerked in his jaw and he felt his hands fisting. The King had plans to rebuild the once-magnificent abbey, but the site was now tainted. Every stone, still in place or tumbled to the ground, forever stained by an enemy’s willful destruction. Sorley frowned, pushing away the anger at long-ago wrongs so he could concentrate on the task at hand.
He’d take especial delight in confronting the traitor Lockhart at St. Mary’s.
Roag was an annoyance he hadn’t expected.
He glared at him now, sure he enjoyed needling him.
“I’ll no’ have you hanging on my cloak when we reach the abbey village.” He released Roag’s arm, brushed at his sleeve. Behind them, Wyldes closed the door, no doubt returning to his innkeeper duties. “Why don’t you go back inside and spend the day with Maili? She’d welcome your company.”
“Such a good friend, you are.” Roag retrieved a leather satchel, similar to Sorley’s, that rested on the cobbles near the well. Opening it, he withdrew a hooded cloak just as threadbare and ratty as the one stashed in Sorley’s travel bag. “With such friends, a man doesn’t need—”
“I am no’ your friend.” Sorley watched his rival plunge the cloak into the barrel of muck. Not surprisingly, the lout flashed a wicked grin, as if he enjoyed thrusting his arms into steaming horse and cow dung. “I have ne’er liked you and dinnae plan on e’er doing so.
“If you ruin this day’s work, there’ll be no end to the reckoning I’ll have from you.” Grimacing, Sorley dipped his own cloak into the barrel. “I’ll no’ wear such reeking rags for naught.”
“I’ll be nowhere near you and Sir Henry.” Roag straightened, shaking out his pilgrim’s mantle before swirling it across his shoulders. “Though”—he rubbed a handful of muck on his arms—“I mean to keep close enough to see if anyone in the village makes a suspicious move. There’s an old abbey watergate down by the river edge. That’s where I’ll be.”
“See you stay there.” Sorley watched him mount his shaggy beast, irritated because he did so with such care. Not that Sorley would swing up onto the aged back of his steed with any less caution. But he didn’t like being reminded of Roag’s better side. The bastard was good to animals.
It was his only merit.
Even his sudden cough was irritating. Hacking and loud in the chill morning air, it grated on Sorley’s nerves even more than the wretched cloak he’d just donned. Trying to close his ears, and his nose, he climbed onto his nag’s back.
He saw the reason for Roag’s coughing fit as soon as he settled himself in the saddle and turned his horse toward the road.
“Damnation!” Sorley’s eyes widened, his heart almost stopping.
A terrible rushing sound roared in his ears as he stared at the small party of mounted Highlanders riding into the stableyard. Their tartan finery and the well-tooled broadswords hanging on elaborate shoulder-and-hip belts marked them as a chiefly entourage, as did the silver-buckled brogues on their feet. The over-large great dirks tucked beneath their sword-belts also screamed quality. Dark blue and green plaids, the wool shot through with thin lines of red and yellow, signaled them as men of Clan Labhran.
The MacLarens.
Lady Mirabelle rode at the head of the column, beside her father, Munro.
Sorley bit back a curse and pulled his cloak’s hood lower down on his forehead. He was vaguely aware of a barely muffled noise that could only be Roag laughing. Ignoring him, Sorley felt his gut clench and his heart plummet nearly to his dung-encrusted toes, for hadn’t he also smeared the muck on his arms and legs, hoping to make himself as unpalatable and beggarlike as possible?
Apparently he’d succeeded, because the MacLarens gave him and Roag a wide berth as they approached each other near the inn’s gateway to the road.
The Highland guards, big and burly to a man, rumpled their noses. They also kneed their horses, urging them to trot faster past the two men they clearly held for lepers or worse.
Munro MacLaren, graying, slight of build, and rather incongruous in his bold, chiefly raiments, looked at them with pity as he rode by.
Mirabelle eyed them with interest.
Or rather, her gaze sharpened on Sorley.
To his horror, she edged her horse closer, her eyes narrowing as she looked him up and down. “Good sir,” she addressed him in her soft Highland voice, “can it be I’ve seen you at Stirling?”
“I think not, my lady,” Sorley answered in the musical dialect of an Islesman, grateful not for the first time for his ability to adopt different accents. He also allowed his hood to slip farther down his face. “My like isnae welcome there.”
“Is that so?” She lifted a brow. “I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere. It will come to me.”
“Belike you saw him here, fair lady.” Roag rode between them, blocking her view of Sorley. “If you’ve halted at the Red Lion before.
“See you,”—he used the same Hebridean dialect as Sorley—“Dungal here empties the inn cesspit for a crust o’ bread and ale.
“When I’m hungry meself, I help him.” He flashed a look at Sorley, the muck smears on his face not dark enough to hide his amusement. “A good day to you, lady! The saints’ blessings upon you.”
Mirabelle opened her mouth to respond, but Roag whacked Sorley’s nag on the rump so the poor beast bolted through the gate and onto the road. Roag followed swiftly, his laughter again disguised as a cough.
Sorley waited until they’d rounded a bend in the road before he reined in and threw back his hood. Anger blazed in his veins and he’d swear a fine red haze tinted the rolling farmland and woods around them. For two pins, he’d whip out his sword and ensure that the ground ran red as well, drenched with Roag’s spilled blood.
Roag was still laughing, nearly convulsed, and his tears made tracks in the dung on his face.
Sorley reached over, gripping the lout’s arm. “Dinnae e’er do that again or I’ll forget every rule I live by and make you a true reeking gangrel before you could catch your breath to run away.”
“You could try.” Roag grinned and thwacked Sorley’s shoulder. “I’m thinking you should thank me. Thon lady knew you.”
“A pig’s eye, she did.” Sorley knew she had.
Scowling, he drew a long, tight breath and started riding again.
Roag could take himself to hell, though Sorley knew he’d never have such luck. He also knew he’d be wise not to meet Mirabelle in the chapel later that night.
He should forget their rendezvous and put her from his mind.
But even as he acknowledged the wisdom of such a plan, he knew it was doomed to fail. As soon as he returned to Stirling from the hamlet of St. Mary’s, he’d take a hot, cleansing bath, dress in his finest, and hie himself to the chapel like the fool he’d become.
Mirabelle would be there waiting.
And simply put, he couldn’t resist her.
Chapter Four
Lichen and moss such as gracing this inn’s roof slates have long been prized for their remedial properties.” Munro MacLaren’s voice rang with enthusiasm as he paced the Red Lion’s long room. A small man, slight of stature, but with piercing, intelligent blue eyes, he could scarcely contain his excitement. “A century ago, Bernard of Gordon praised them in his masterful work on healing, the Lilium Medicinae.”
Standing near the door, Mirabelle recognized her father’s fervor. She hoped he wouldn’t start a long discourse, keeping them from their business here.
It wouldn’t take hours for his men to help him onto the roof to examine and gather his samples.
But if he became carried away speaking of medicine and healing, they wouldn’t be leaving the inn before nightfall, if then. Should rooms be secured, their return to the castle delayed until morning…
She’d miss meeting Sorley at the chapel.
Not wanting to consider such a possibility, Mirabelle stepped closer to the door, pretending to peer out at the inn’s cobbled rear yard.
Behind her, her father had drawn a deep breath and was already extolling the virtues of the Lilium Medicinae, his favorite manuscript on healing.
Turning back to the room, Mirabelle’s heart sank to see the familiar look on her father’s face. The slight flush to his cheeks and the light in his eyes hinted that they could be here until the morrow.
If so, she’d find a way to return to Stirling on her own. A guardsman could be persuaded to escort her. She’d even walk if need be, leaving when no one was looking. If she must, she’d sprout wings and fly. Desperation made all things possible, didn’t it?
Before they’d left the castle, she’d caught her father speaking with John Sinclair. She didn’t know what they’d discussed, but she didn’t like the look Sir John had given her when he’d left them.
Mirabelle shivered, the gossip she’d heard about the man making her stomach knot. Tales of castle serving wenches gone missing after having caught his eye. Whispers about the bruises seen on Stirling town’s joy women whenever he’d spent time in the taverns where they plied their trade.
Many court worthies claimed envious lords spread the rumors, men who stood in Sinclair�
��s debt and hoped to avoid returning coin he’d loaned them. If Sinclair fell from favor and was banished from the King’s grace, such men could forget the monies due to him.
Straightening, she smoothed her skirts, not wanting anyone to note her discomfiture.
Above all, she was not going to miss her rendezvous with Sorley.
Most certainly not because of a hoary tome filled with cures that involved horses’ teeth, dried adder heads, toads, newts, and even birds’ windpipes. Mirabelle took a deep breath, silently willing her father to not lecture on the curative properties of suchlike.
He was pacing the long room again, his hands clasped behind him as he continued to pontificate on the much-revered Lilium Medicinae.
“I once saw a copy of that book.” William Wyldes, the huge, red-haired innkeeper glanced at her father as he placed a large platter of delicious-smelling roasted meat on the table claimed by the MacLaren guards. “A party of Skye MacLeods stopped here for the night and they had one of the famed MacBeth healers with them. That man carried the Lilium Medicinae with him while his chief traveled by boat on the river.
“The book was so treasured by him and the MacLeod that they felt it was more secure journeying by land than on water.” The innkeeper scratched his beard, then grinned. “It was that MacBeth healer who told me to wedge clubmoss between the roof slates.
“He said the moss protects travelers.” Wyldes glanced up at the smoke-blackened rafters as if he could see the moss through the ceiling. “Running an inn for wayfarers, I was glad to take his advice. Though”—he shook his head—“I’m no’ sure I’d go to the trouble of carrying round a book as if it were a coffer of gold.”
“The Lilium Medicinae is precious.” Munro now stood before the fire, rubbing his hands. “It’s why I’m in Stirling. I’m helping the King’s scribes translate the Gaelic text. The work is tedious, but greatly rewarding.”
“So is mine.” The innkeeper winked, pouring the guardsmen generous cups of ale. “Though this is the first time anyone has wished to climb onto my roof. Most men who come here have other desires.”
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