Passion's Exile

by Glynnis Campbell

  He told himself that his concern wasn’t for her in particular, but for young Archibald of Laichloan. After all, if the group splintered, the lad’s assassins would be more difficult to track.

  He paced across the hall yet again, restlessly flexing his fists, glancing up at the still closed door. Then Father Peter began announcing their departure.

  "What’s the trouble, Blade?" Wilham whispered, falling in beside him. "Are ye that anxious to go?"

  "We’re not all accounted for," he muttered around the bite of oatcake.

  Wilham scanned the residents of the hall. "The lass."

  Blade sent a glance toward the upstairs chamber.

  "I never would have believed it," Wilham said, shaking his head in a pretense of wonder, his voice thick with sarcasm. "She’s slipped off, hasn’t the little shrew, to do her dirty business? By God, she is the murderer."

  But just then, to Blade’s relief and Wilham’s amusement, the door swung open, and out peered the lass, looking warily both ways along the hallway. When she saw the way was clear, she retreated momentarily, then stepped onto the landing.

  Blade almost choked on his oatcake when she reappeared.

  The lass had been resourceful, he had to admit. She descended the steps, her head and face veiled by a modest swath of white linen. No one but he recognized that her concealing wimple was made of a supper napkin.

  She managed to elude Sir Fergus’s attentions. The pilgrims said their farewells and cleared the hall, and the lass discreetly collected her falcon. But as she passed by, Blade couldn’t resist commenting under his breath. "Lovely veil.”

  She blushed in a most becoming manner, and he found himself hoping that, despite his suspicions, the lass with the falcon wasn’t the assassin he sought.

  Wilham elbowed him, breaking into his thoughts. "I think ye’d better train an eye on the goldsmith and that Lettie woman," he confided.

  "Why?"

  "While ye were off last night, deliverin’ that midnight feast—"

  Blade snagged Wilham’s arm, stopping him in his tracks. “Ye knew about that?”

  Wilham raised a brow. "Oh, don’t be so shocked," he said. "Ye know as well as I do, ‘tis my occupation to watch your back."

  Blade released him with a disgruntled sigh.

  "Anyway, while ye were..." He cleared his throat. "Out, I saw the goldsmith leave his bed and go out the door. I followed, watchin’ him from the doorway. He waited outside the ladies’ chamber for a long while, and eventually a woman emerged."

  "Lettie?"

  "Aye. Where they went, I don’t know. But I know he didn’t return to bed until after ye’d come back."

  Blade frowned thoughtfully, looking over the heads of the pilgrims toward the goldsmith who, predictably, walked beside Lettie. ‘Twas possible they were the culprits. Lettie, in particular, looked capable of slipping poison into a young lad’s drink without skipping a breath. Blade would keep watch on them both today.

  As they traveled through the wood, ‘twasn’t long before Blade’s eye chanced upon a small nest lodged in the fork of an oak tree not far off the path. It contained two tiny eggs and a larger one he knew belonged to a cuckoo. Performing two good deeds with one act, he slipped the invasive cuckoo egg carefully into the pouch he wore at his hip, to keep it warm until ‘twas time for the falcon to feed.

  The morning blossomed into the kind of spring day to make a Scotsman boast. Puffy white clouds floated like thistledown across a jewel bright sky. Squirrels spiraled up the trunks of ancient oaks, and sparrows twittered and flitted about, their beaks laden with bits of dry grass and twigs. Newly-hatched butterflies embroidered the grass, alighting on daisies and bluebells and dandelions scattered on the emerald sward. The air was balmy and fragrant, full of new life. Even the scuffling of twenty pairs of shoes and the incessant drone of conversation created a lulling lay as the travelers strolled like minstrels through the countryside.

  By mid-afternoon, they stopped to rest. The Gray Swan, a squat, crumbling tavern tucked away in a dark grove of oaks, far from any town, nevertheless made the pilgrims welcome. Blade wasn’t familiar with this particular establishment, but he knew their type well. Hardly a day passed that some traveler wouldn’t journey along such a road, whether a group of pilgrims, a fair-bound merchant, or a knight’s retinue. The Gray Swan fared well on the purses of wanderers. ‘Twas also a perfect site for secret assignations and gatherings of a less wholesome nature.

  Indeed, Blade’s mind was so attuned to possible intrigue and danger that when he felt someone tug suddenly at his sleeve, he started and almost instinctively raised his fists.

  Fortunately, he stayed his hands in time, but his fierce scowl made the woman gasp, and her falcon flapped wildly on her arm.

  "Sorry." He raised his hands in apology. "Sorry." His heart banged against his ribs. Bloody hell—had he almost struck her? There were times when a knight’s instincts were a curse. Then he twisted his mouth bitterly. One of those times he remembered all too well. ‘Twas a time that haunted him every waking moment. He lowered his hands and growled, "Ye should ne’er steal up on a man-at-arms."

  He glimpsed the momentary sting in her eyes, but what he said, he said for her own good. He’d not withdraw his warning.

  To his amazement, she didn’t dissolve into tears and run away. Instead, when her falcon calmed, she drew herself up to her full height, which still left her only shoulder-high to him, and disdainfully held out her closed fist.

  He frowned, puzzled.

  "Take it," she snapped.

  He warily held out a shackled hand, and she dropped a penny on his palm.

  "For your ale," she explained, flushing prettily with ire. "I expect ye to live up to your end o’ the bargain. My falcon grows hungry." Then she whipped around in a swirl of scarlet skirts to stalk off.

  He caught her by the elbow. She gasped, and he could see her pulse racing in her throat. He should let her go. He knew that. He was a knight, not an outlaw. Or at least he had been. ‘Twas brutal to accost a frail angel in such a manner.

  Still, he detained her. He wrapped his fingers around her upper arm, holding her there, and, enclosing the penny in his other hand, reached into the pouch at his hip. Her brows lifted when he produced the cuckoo’s egg, and she had the grace to look chagrined when he placed it in her hand.

  "Thank ye...sir," she muttered, clearly abashed.

  He felt a moment of grim satisfaction as she hurried off to feed the bird.

  Despite the gloomy outward appearance of The Gray Swan, once they went inside, the tavern maids were cheery, and the ale was cheap. But a few dubious characters whispered in shadowed corners. Blade never kept his hand far from his dagger. The tavern was an ideal place to plot devilry.

  Wilham obviously agreed. The ubiquitous sparkle of his eyes vanished, replaced by watchful sobriety. While the rest of the pilgrims drank greedily, he and Blade sipped at their cups, keeping their minds clear, their wits sharp.

  The first pilgrim to leave the tavern was Jacob the goldsmith. Blade wasn’t the only one watching him. Two nefarious-looking oafs took keen interest in his going, perhaps with an eye for his gold.

  "Shall I follow him?" Wilham asked.

  "Not yet."

  Blade watched the oafs. They were in no hurry to follow the goldsmith either. Perhaps he’d misjudged their intent. But in another moment, Lettie rose from her bench and sauntered toward the door.

  "Now?" Wilham asked eagerly.

  "I’ll go. Ye keep an eye on those two nefarious-lookin’ oafs." He nodded toward the men.

  Disappointed, Wilham slumped at the table, and Blade slipped out the tavern door in time to see Lettie vanish beyond the trees. She was easy to track—she didn’t trouble to hide her passage or silence her footfalls—and after exchanging a few badly done owl calls with someone, ‘twasn’t long before she met up, as he suspected, with Jacob. Blade hid in the bushes, close enough to see them, but not to hear their whispers.

  Soon,
however, he discovered the purpose of their secret meeting. They plotted not assassination, but adultery. Lettie kissed the goldsmith, then chuckled in rich seduction, turning and bending forward at the waist to flip up her skirts while Jacob fumbled with the points of his braies.

  Blade squeezed his eyes shut. He wished to see no more. ‘Twas bad enough that he couldn’t stop his ears against their grunts and squeals nor leave without alerting them of his presence.

  It didn’t take long. Blade was able to conceal himself well enough that, when they were done, they passed by one at a time—for appearance’s sake, of course—without seeing him. He waited several moments, then emerged from the brush and started back along the trail, disgusted at the waste of his time.

  The trees crowded this part of the wood, forming a leafy canopy overhead that cast deep shadow on the ground below. Blade was struck by misgiving about the place and its unnatural dark, as if the forest was accustomed to harboring evil and might turn on him at any time. More than just the sin of adultery took place here, he was certain.

  Something rustled the thick blanket of dead leaves off to his right, and he froze, his hand gripping the haft of his dagger. A squirrel suddenly bounded from the pile, its tail twitching as it scampered into the bushes. Blade let go of his weapon.

  He heard another shiver of leaves—a wren this time, flitting among the branches.

  But a larger movement drew his eye, and he slipped behind a fat sycamore trunk to observe. Through the maze of saplings, he spied Guillot. The timid youth, with his woven satchel slung over one bony shoulder, was groping along the bole of an oak. A finch flew past the lad’s head, and the boy ducked in panic. His gaze darted nervously around the forest, and fear drained the color from his face.

  As Blade watched, the lad reached into the hollow bole, wincing distastefully at whatever skittering creatures lurked there, then withdrew his arm. Into the hollow went the satchel. Then the boy picked up a stone and scratched an X into the trunk above the bole. When he was done, he dropped the rock, wiped his hands on his breeches, hastily scanning the woods, then scurried toward the spot where Blade waited.

  Blade stepped out from his hiding place to intercept the lad. But when he caught the youth by the shoulders, the poor lad instantly went as limp as a dead dove. Indeed, Blade didn’t so much restrain the lad as hold him upright. If Guillot was part of a murder plot, Blade thought, he must be someone else’s instrument, for the boy’s heart was clearly too weak for intrigue.

  "Please do not kill me." His voice was as thin as thread, colored by a faint French accent, and tears welled in his wide eyes. "Do not kill me. You can have it. You can have it all."

  "Shh. I won’t kill ye. I just want to know what mischief ye’re up to."

  "I meant to give it back. I swear I did. Only do not...do not tell him. Do not tell him it was me." Then he began sniffling like a child, and ‘twas all Blade could do to calm the pitiful lad.

  "What did ye take?" he asked gently. "What did ye leave in that tree?"

  "S-s-silver, my master’s silver." He clutched at Blade’s shirt, pleading with him. "I wouldn’t have taken it, but I had no coin of my own."

  He frowned. "Ye wish me to have pity on a thief?"

  The boy clamped his lips together, stifling his sobs. "I’m no thief. I know that now. That’s why I left the silver there. I mean to send word to him where it is hidden."

  "So, a remorseful thief."

  The boy sank his head onto his chest in shame.

  Blade sighed and glanced at the oak where he’d cached the silver. There must be more to the story. "This man is your master?"

  He swallowed hard and nodded.

  "And ye are his..."

  "His apprentice, a locksmith."

  He narrowed his eyes, suspicious. "Why would ye have need o’ his silver? A master provides for his apprentices."

  Guillot’s chin trembled, and tears welled anew. He whispered something, but Blade couldn’t hear it.

  "What? Speak up."

  But the lad buried his face in his hands to hide his weeping. Blade reached into his pouch, whipping out a cloth to dry the boy’s tears, but to his surprise, the gesture made Guillot recoil in terror, throwing his arms in front of his face.

  "‘Tis only a cloth," he murmured, showing the youth. Then Blade glanced at the boy’s upraised wrists. They were purple with recent bruises. More mottling he hadn’t noticed before ringed the lad’s throat in shades of sickly yellow and green.

  He swallowed hard. ‘Twasn’t the first time he’d seen signs of abuse. Images of Julian, his brother’s wife, flashed through his mind unbidden—a blackened eye, a bruised cheek, a burned hand. His fury rose like a roused wolf, the way it always had with Julian. But he was older now, and wiser, and instead of lashing out against the injustice, he leashed the beast and let the anger growl inside him.

  "Your master beats ye," he murmured with far more calm than he felt.

  His blunt statement surprised the lad. He lowered his arms and self-consciously tugged his sleeves down over the bruises.

  "And ye ran away," Blade guessed.

  Despite his shaking limbs and spindly frame, Guillot’s words were firm. "I will not return. No one can make me return."

  Blade’s eyes smoldered like banked coals. "No one will."

  If Rose had known the forest would be as busy as St. Andrews on market day, she would never have considered sneaking into the trees to answer nature’s call. Luckily, when the foot traffic began, she’d already taken care of her business.

  First, Jacob passed by her hiding spot, then Lettie. A moment later, the timid French lad traipsed past in the opposite direction. Finally, he’d come skulking by. Blade. The dark outlaw.

  Fortunately, no one seemed to see her standing frozen behind the clump of bushes. Blade was preoccupied with spying on the apprentice, who was preoccupied with stuffing a sack into the hollow of a tree. When the lad walked past again, Blade had nabbed him. What ensued was a fascinating exchange between the two.

  Apparently, Rose wasn’t the only one using the pilgrimage as a means of escape to St. Andrews.

  "I have to give the silver back," Guillot told Blade. "I cannot go home to Calais with the stain of thievery on my soul. But I will not return to my master."

  Rose agreed. She wouldn’t return to her abuser either. But she thought the lad deserved to keep the coin as payment for the beatings.

  "Ye can’t leave the silver here," Blade said.

  "I mean to send a missive to him, telling him where it is hidden."

  "It may not be here when he arrives," Blade said plainly. "And if ‘tis gone, not only will he bemoan the loss o’ his silver, but he’ll also know when and where ye passed this way."

  "He might follow me," Guillot realized, his eyes darting fearfully. "He might find me." He pressed a bony fist into his palm. "What shall I do?"

  "Take it with ye until we reach St. Andrews. There ye can find a priest to see it safely returned."

  The boy nodded.

  Then Blade glanced about the dark woods, and a brief shudder betrayed his emotions. "Ye’d best retrieve your sack now. There’s no tellin’ what manner o’ men lurk in these woods."

  No sooner had he spoken than three such men emerged from behind a huge joined pair of gnarled oaks in the deep shadows. Quick as lightning, Blade curved an arm around the apprentice, pulling the lad behind him to protect him from the filthy fiends who approached.

  Rose stifled a gasp. The men—if they could be called that—seemed made out of the leaves and dirt of the woods. Mud coated their faces and stained their garments, and oak leaves stuck out from their sleeves and hats. The only things not besmirched with camouflaging dirt were the vicious daggers they held before them.

  "Aye." The first man’s voice was coarse, like a rusty hinge. "Ye’d best retrieve yer sack now, young lad."

  "So’s we can take it back to its rightful owner," the second sneered.

  The third man, who not only looked
like a tree, but had the same gargantuan proportions, mindlessly grinned. "Right, so’s we can take it back."

  Before they even finished giggling, Blade drew a dagger.

  Rose’s heart lurched. She’d never seen a real fight, only tournaments, where the blades were blunted, knights were rarely injured, and men exchanged insults with harmless glee.

  This battle would be real. Blood would be spilled. Blade was not only outnumbered, but shackled. No matter how good a fight he put up, the three thieves would surely defeat him.

  She had to do something.

  She sprang forward. At least, that was her intent. Actually, since her skirts snagged on the bushes, ‘twas more of a lunge and then a topple. By the time she managed to disentangle herself and scramble upright, cursing all the while, the fight was already well engaged.

  Rose was astonished by Blade’s skill, his speed, his ferocity. Despite his shackles, he slashed with the dagger in bold arcs, forcing the thieves away. He yelled at Guillot to get back, and the boy wasted no time scurrying off, Rose hoped, to get help.

  Blade’s dagger sliced forward, nicking the second thief’s arm, and the man howled in pain.

  "Go get the silver," the first robber whined to his wounded companion. "We’ll hold him off."

  "Nae!" Rose shouted. She astonished them all, for none had noted her presence till now. Without considering the consequences and before they could gather their wits, she tore off for the tree where the silver was cached.

  Behind her, Blade suddenly bellowed, "Nae! To me!"

  But the thieves were apparently more interested in the silver than his challenge. When she stole a glance over her shoulder, all three were lumbering after her.

  She skidded on the leaves in front of the tree, and she was sure the robbers would simply push her out of the way, reach in, steal the treasure, and disappear.

  She hadn’t counted on Blade’s speed. He roared up on their heels before they could grab anything, and his dagger whistled about their heads, taking the first thief’s hat and leaving a bloody gash alongside his ear.