Blade frowned. "Did ye see anyone come in just now...a pair o’..." How could he describe them? Whisperers? "Anyone in a hurry, anyone suspicious?"
"In here?" Wilham shrugged. "Everyone is in a hurry, mostly for their next ale. Why?"
He explained what he’d heard outside—the whispers, the threat, the name of Laichloan. But instead of lighting up at the prospect of intrigue and peril as he usually did, Wilham was uncharacteristically quiet. He sipped at his ale and fixed his gaze thoughtfully upon the scarred surface of the table.
"Did ye hear me?" Blade asked.
"So," Wilham said, scoring the oak further with the edge of his thumbnail, "ye’re off on another adventure then. Ye don’t intend to go home."
Blade swallowed hard. Wilham was right, of course. He stared at his brooding companion, then let his gaze drift out over the milling crowd. How could he explain? How could he tell Wilham that until he was free of his guilt, he never intended to return?
He chewed at his lip, searching for the right words. "I...can’t."
Wilham nodded, knowing, and looked up from his drink. Foam flecked the stubble above his lip, and his sorrel hair fell in boyish tangles over his forehead.
Blade felt like a churl. Sometimes Wilham seemed so young, even though the two were the same age. Perhaps ‘twas the man’s goodness that kept him youthful. His soul, unlike Blade’s, was unstained by sin. Wilham was always there with a merry smile and a friendly jest, no matter how foul Blade’s mood. It still amazed him that Wilham had stayed beside him all these months. Anyone else would have deserted him long ago.
And now what had Blade done? He’d wounded his only friend. He glimpsed rare sorrow in Wilham’s eyes, and it wrenched at his conscience to so callously fail his one champion.
He bit the inside of his cheek and glared into his foamy ale, ticking a ragged thumbnail against the side of his tankard. There were a hundred excuses he could make for avoiding Mirkhaugh. But ‘twas useless lying to Wilham. Wilham could see through his deceit. And ‘twasn’t in his heart to deceive his old friend.
"Damn it all, Wil,” Blade finally grumbled, “‘tis too soon."
Wilham was disappointed. Blade could see that. But—good man that Wilham was—he’d never admit it.
Blade furrowed his brow, angry with himself. "Ye go," he decided. "Ye go back. Ye have family at Mirkhaugh—brothers who grow as fast as weeds, sisters who hardly remember ye..." He smirked ruefully. "Lasses who long for your bed."
Wilham obliged him with a chuckle. Then he straightened, wiping the suds and the smile from his mouth, and gripped Blade’s forearm. "I won’t go back. Not without ye."
His fierce loyalty caught suddenly at Blade’s chest and lodged in his throat, bringing him perilously close to tears. He clenched his jaw and wrapped a bracing fist around his tankard as the space of silence thickened between them.
"Besides," Wilham said at last, relaxing his face into its usual irrepressible smile and jostling Blade’s arm before he let go, "don’t we have the matter of a murder to solve?" He clapped Blade on the shoulder. "What good is your sharp blade without my sharp mind, eh?" he said, tapping a finger to his own temple.
Blade wasn’t about to argue with him. They’d traveled too long together, one step ahead of danger, foxing their way out of tight spaces by their swords and by their wits, for him to make light of Wilham’s cunning.
"Laichloan," Wilham considered, stroking his chin. "That should bring us a tidy sum. On the other hand, I seem to remember Laichloan’s daughters were a handful o’ spoiled imps. The lad may be just as rotten. Are you sure there wouldn’t be a bigger reward helpin’ these assassins?”
Blade flashed him a chiding glare.
Wilham snickered, then scrutinized the occupants of The Black Hound at length, finally tossing up his hands. "Well, they all look guilty to me. I say we round up the lot o’ them!"
But Blade was only half listening. His mind was mulling over what he’d heard earlier. Pilgrimage, the conspirators had said. They were going on a pilgrimage to St. Andrews, which was where they planned to kill Archibald. Blade narrowed his eyes at the parchment swinging from a nail below the lantern on the far wall. Setting his tankard down, he pushed up from the table.
"Hey, where are ye goin’?" Wilham asked. "Ye haven’t finished your..."
Blade didn’t answer. His gaze was centered on the notice. He elbowed his way through the mass of people and snatched the parchment from the wall.
‘Twas an announcement for a pilgrimage, the day of Saint Anselm’s, beginning at The Black Hound and proceeding under the guidance of Father Peter to the holy shrine at St. Andrews. Blade scanned the note again. There could be no mistake. This must be the pilgrimage the assassins intended to undertake.
Returning to Wilham, he tossed the parchment onto the table in front of his friend. Wilham choked guiltily on Blade’s ale, having wasted no time in partaking of the abandoned tankard.
"What’s this?" Wilham burped, squinting at the notice.
"We leave on the morrow."
"Father Peter..." Wilham read. "Pilgrimage to St. Andrews..." Then his eyes widened, and he muttered an oath. "Ye’re not serious?"
"I am."
"A pilgrimage?" he squeaked. He sank his head onto his hands. "Why?"
"The best way to catch the assassins is by infiltratin’ their ranks."
Wilham pulled a face that looked like he’d tasted rotten meat. "But a pilgrimage. Stuck for days with religious zealots and pious, whey-faced maids." He shuddered.
The corner of Blade’s mouth drifted up. "Ye’re always tellin’ me I could use a measure o’ redemption."
"Aye? Well, if I suffer this for ye," Wilham bargained, stabbing a finger at Blade, "ye’ll owe me a fortnight in the most expensive stews of Edinburgh."
"Done."
‘Twas idle banter. Wilham, for all his swaggering, had too tender a nature to frequent brothels. He loved one woman at a time, and her with all his heart.
Out of temper, Wilham spitefully drained the rest of Blade’s ale, crossly banging the tankard down on the table. "I suppose we’ll have to be on some sort o’ penitent mission," he grumbled. "No knight with half a wit would go on pilgrimage unless ‘twere as punishment."
An hour later, when they retired upstairs, noisy revelers still packed the inn. Blade lay awake on the straw pallet, remembering small slivers of time when he, too, laughed and drank and made merry until the sun came up, when he slept on a feather bed instead of the hard ground, when he wore rich velvet instead of worn leather, when his life was untroubled by hardship and exile.
Those days were gone. Now, more often than not, he fell asleep in the cold to the sound of owls and crickets, with Wilham snoring at his feet.
Even now, Wilham snorted from the foot of the pallet. Blade punched his straw bolster into a more satisfactory shape, checked to ensure his sword was in reach, then forced his eyes shut. They would embark on a dangerous mission on the morrow, and he wanted to be well-rested.
Of course, as fate would have it, his night was filled not with rest but with troubling dreams. He writhed and tossed in slumber, struggling to escape the hellish visions, but they haunted him without mercy.
Even in sleep, the unforgettable smell of battle—iron and sweat and blood—assaulted his nostrils. He felt again the shocking sting in his back, the wrench of his shoulder as he turned with his weapon. Every time he had the dream, he tried to change it, tried to stay his arm, to halt the blow. Every time he failed. His sword plunged forward, finding its target and sinking deep. And then came the piteous scream.
It echoed with savage cruelty in his mind’s ear. And when he woke with a start in the dark, jerking upright, he swore he still heard vestiges of the heart-rending sound. Icy sweat poured from him, his chest heaved with phantom exertion, and despair racked his soul.
He buried his face in his hands, then ran shaking fingers through his damp hair. God’s eyes, would he never be free of his sin? Was there no sal
vation for him?
‘Twas only a few hours till dawn. He knew he’d get no more sleep. He scrubbed at his eyes and rose from the bed, dressing quietly, despite the knowledge that after so much ale, even a siege cannon wouldn’t wake Wilham.
There was something he had to do, something Wilham had reminded him of, to add believability to his presence on the pilgrimage. Strangely, the idea brought some measure of peace to his soul. Maybe this was more than just another lucrative undertaking for him. Maybe, following in the footsteps of other lost pilgrims, he’d find redemption.
Then he gave his head a shake. Such thoughts were foolish. There was no redemption for what he’d done.
He hefted his great helm from beside the bed. ‘Twas tarnished with age and dented with blows from a hundred battles, but it had served him well. All he had to do now was find an armorer who, for a few silver coins, might be persuaded to fire up his forge at this ungodly hour.
By the time he returned to The Black Hound hours later, the sun had begun to stab through the branches of ash and elm, warming the inn’s plaster walls and rousing the tenants. Nodding to the open-mouthed tavern wench as he swept past, Blade trudged up the stairs and shouldered open the door of his chamber.
His eyes widened when he saw Wilham standing in the midst of the room—sawing with his dagger at a hank of hair stretched above his head, a pile of brown curls at his feet. "What the devil?"
"There ye are!" Wilham scolded, tossing his last lock to the floor and squinting at his reflection in the small polished steel mirror. "Where have ye been? I’ve had to crop this myself," he complained, riffling through what little remained of his hair, "and I’m sure I’ve made a mess of it." He growled and sheathed his dagger. "There. Do I look penitent enough?"
Blade was still staring, speechless, when Wilham turned and saw him for the first time.
"Zounds!" Wilham yelped. "What have ye done, man?"
Blade finally found his tongue. "What have I done? What have ye done?"
Wilham drew himself up proudly. "I’ve disgraced myself as a knight," he declared. "I’m not certain how yet. I’ll think o’ somethin’. But ye..."
Wilham circled to look at him from all angles, whistling under his breath. Heavy shackles encircled Blade’s wrists, and between them hung a thick chain of iron links. Blade ground his teeth in annoyance, already regretting his impaired ability to clout Wilham.
Finally Wilham stopped before him, his fists planted on his hips. "Chains forged from your own armor. Classic.” He shook his head. “Always doin’ me one better. And ye’ve no doubt got a fantastic tale o’ dishonor to go with this?"
Blade gave him a rueful smirk and tossed him the newly cast key to the shackles. "I’m certain ye’ll come up with one."
‘Twouldn’t prove too challenging, he was sure. The truth was enough to warrant the shame he now bore for all to see.
Rose wondered if she looked as haggard as she felt. Even Wink drooped on her glove, her feathers askew, her good eye squinting against the increasing light of day. Rose had trudged all night through the dark wood, jumping at every rustle in the leaves, shuddering at every glowing set of eyes she encountered. Each time a hooting owl or a howling wolf broke the eerie silence, her entreaties to Saint Christopher increased in volume and vehemence. And somehow, whether ‘twas due to prayer or sheer determination, she made it through the forest unscathed.
Bone-weary, Rose smiled when the sun finally rose before them on the shoulders of the thatched cottages at the outskirts of Stirling, like the star over Bethlehem, showing them the way. As anxious as she was to find The Black Hound, she still had the presence of mind to take a moment before she emerged from the wood and onto the main road to beat the dust from her skirts, wipe the sweat from her brow, and pass her fingers through her snarled tresses to give them some semblance of order. Perhaps if she looked presentable enough, no one would question her sudden appearance from out of nowhere.
Wink could have found The Black Hound with her one eye. The imposing whitewashed, black-timbered establishment—nestled against the northern edge of the town—boasted an enormous sign depicting the snarling, sharp-toothed beast that gave the inn its name.
Standing upon the threshold, Rose absently stroked the falcon to settle the both of them. She made one final scrub at a stubborn streak of dark mud on her scarlet surcoat, and with her velvet sleeve, polished the carbuncle pendant hanging about her neck. Then she took a deep breath, pushed open the door, and was swept into a world of chaos.
People crowded the dim room, scurrying here and there, elbowing past one another, lugging goods, satchels, and bits of breakfast while they chattered like birds at daybreak. The odor of ale was strong, but the smell of baked bread, rose water, and tallow mellowed the aroma of the room, creating a panoply of scents as varied as the individuals who bore them.
A few wore somber attire and expressions, as she’d expected of pilgrims, but the bulk of the blabbering mob looked as if they prepared for an entertainment of some sort. Two stocky, dark-bearded fellows tossed dice noisily onto a table, and a trio of fresh-faced lads munched on brown bread. Rich laughter from a voluptuous woman seated at one of the tables rolled over the top of the droning speech of an ascetic who seemed to be lecturing a timid brown straw of a lad.
"Will ye be joinin’ us, m’lady?" The jovial, rumbling voice addressing Rose belonged to a man who looked like something made at a cooper’s stall. His robes and his tonsure marked him as a priest, but the belt closing his cassock strained about his round belly like a hoop around a barrel.
"I... I..." She nodded. "Aye."
"Brilliant. I’m Father Peter. I’ll be leadin’ the pilgrimage." He rocked back on his heels, and for an instant, Rose feared the rotund man might tip over. "And ye are?"
"Rosamund, Lady Rosamund o’..." Too late, she realized she should have used a false name. "O’ Doune." ‘Twas the first town she thought of, and she wondered how much penance she’d owe for lying to a priest.
"Lady Rosamund," he said, louder than she would have liked. "And who is your bonnie friend?"
"Ah. My falcon, Wink." She added firmly, "She goes everywhere with me."
"Wink, is it?" He hooked his thumbs in his belt. Rose was amazed there was room for thumbs. "An apt name."
He nodded and motioned Rose forward. "Come join the rest o’ the company then," he said merrily. "Make your own introductions. Have a bit o’ somethin’ to break your fast. We’ll be on our way within the hour."
Rose was hungry, and the smell of bread made her mouth water. She had no idea how much the pilgrimage would cost, all told, but she was willing to spend a good deal of her coin this morn on something—anything—to stop the growling in her belly.
"Food first," she murmured to Wink, "friendship later."
For three pence, she feasted on ale and a fresh-baked loaf of heavy brown bread with butter as she studied the faces of the pilgrims.
They were a motley bunch. More than a few of them—the gaunt gentleman with the sly eyes, the pair of burly men playing at dice, the dismal young man who looked aged beyond his years—seemed dangerous.
But better she should travel in league with this lot, as rough as they were, than have to fend off outlaws on her own. Besides, Father Peter seemed a decent enough fellow. Surely he’d see them safely to their destination.
A woman suddenly shrieked beside Rose, leaping back, tossing her dark blonde curls, and clutching a hand dramatically to her overripe bosom, which bulged above a richly brocaded surcoat. "Ye aren’t bringin’ that...that beast, are ye?"
Rose’s hackles went up. "‘Tisn’t a beast," she said, lifting her chin defensively. "‘Tis a falcon."
The woman trembled with fear as she glanced distractedly around the room. Then she abruptly frowned, annoyed by the fact that no one was paying much heed to her apparent distress. "Hmph!” she muttered. “Where’s a knight in shinin’ armor when ye need one?" Her worry vanished instantly, and she held forth her hand in friendship. "Bri
git’s my name," she said, a twinkle in her green eyes. "Your bird doesn’t bite, does it?"
"Nae. Unless she’s threatened." Rose extended her own hand. "I’m Lady Rosamund o’..." She supposed it made no difference on a pilgrimage who was titled and who was not. "Call me Rose."
"Pleased to meet ye, Rose." Brigit winked. "This your first pilgrimage?"
Rose nodded. "And ye?"
“Hardly.” Brigit smirked, then flashed open her cloak. Next to the guild pin which marked her as a brewster were a half dozen pilgrim badges. "This’ll be the year," she said, wagging her finger. "I’m goin’ to catch me a husband, I am. Six years o’ widowhood is long enough."
She must have spotted a prospect just then, for her attention immediately deserted Rose. Brigit adjusted her tightly laced kirtle, boosting up her bosom until Rose feared it might topple out, saucily tossed her blonde tresses over her shoulder, and minced toward the far end of the room.
As she left, a fair-haired, broad-shouldered giant ambled up. His sea blue eyes and weathered skin betrayed his Viking ancestry. "That’s a fine bird ye’ve got there." He gestured with his tankard of beer. "That a peregrine?"
"Aye."
"Well, she’s a beauty, even if she’s missin’ that eye." He narrowed his azure gaze. "Tell me, how do ye manage to feed her?"
Rose’s heart skipped a beat. How indeed? What a fool she’d been. On the journey from Fernie to Averlaigh, she’d had Apollo the gyrfalcon with her. Who would hunt for Wink now?
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."
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