"Nor I ye."
He furrowed his brow, weighted with guilt. "What I said last night...about fore’er..."
"I know," she said, and he could discern clearly now the hint of melancholy at the back of her eyes, the sadness that had likely been there all along, the sorrow she’d buried under sunny smiles and gay laughter. "I know. But we have today. And I’ve no regrets."
Her brave face made him feel all the worse, as if his own heart might break. ‘Twas absurd. His heart had been shattered years ago. Surely there was nothing left to wound.
"There ‘tis!" someone shouted suddenly, and the rest of the pilgrims joined in, their spirits revived.
A few miles hence, rising above the mist, stood the great twin spires of St. Andrews. For some, like Father Peter and Simon the palmer, ‘twould mean another badge on their cloak or another coin in their purse. For some, like Campbell and Guillot, the cathedral represented penance and forgiveness. For many, ‘twas simply the end of a colorful journey. For Rose, it meant a turn in her life’s path. And for Blade? What he’d almost believed might be his last chance for redemption he now looked upon with dread. Looming above the city ahead was the end of hope.
As planned, they’d arrived on the Sabbath, and they now entered the city as the bells began tolling the call to Mass. The streets soon flooded with worshippers—citizens and pilgrims, nobles and servants, merchants in robes of brocade and polished gems, beggars in grimy tatters, penitents in sackcloth—all swarming toward the cathedral.
Even Rose, clutching tightly to her falcon, appeared to be carried along by the throng at a whim, like a blossom on a swirling stream. But she seemed excited, not frightened, and she must have read his concern, for as they drifted apart, she laughed and sent him a merry promise across the crowd. "After Mass!"
Blade cast a backward glance toward Wilham, who shrugged as he tried to keep an eye on the members of their company. As much as Blade wanted to stay with Rose, he had a murder to prevent.
At the summit of the grand cathedral, as the horde pressed into the sanctuary, Blade struggled to keep sight of everyone in the teeming chaos of velvet and broadcloth, perfume and sweat, laughter and scolding.
The St. Andrews residents swept forward with rude haste past the vast arches of the cathedral, seeking the spots closest to God, while visitors paused in hushed reverence at the door. Blade and Wilham hovered over their flock like anxious shepherds. But the pilgrims, tired of one another’s company, were more than willing to sever ties, and Blade and Wilham were forced to separate to maintain surveillance.
Candles filled the sanctuary with golden light, and Blade remembered when he’d first seen the cathedral as a lad. St. Andrews, with its vaulting arches and stained glass windows gleaming like jewels, its gilded altar and the sweet smoke drifting like celestial spirits past the pillars, had seemed like heaven. Now, he realized, something had been missing. An angel.
He glanced over his shoulder. There she was now, standing with her falcon near to the door, her reverent face illuminated by candlelight, as beautiful as a saint.
Spiced incense wafted through the air, quieting the worshippers, and Blade directed his attention forward again. The altar seemed a mile away. The figures at the fore in rich-colored copes looked as small as finches. And between Blade and those figures swam a sea of people—two of whom, despite the sanctity of their surroundings, plotted murder. He scowled, scanning the crowd, wondering if he faced an impossible task.
He spotted Ivo and Odo behind a pillar. They’d smuggled in a wineskin and were passing it back and forth.
Fulk was easy to find, for he towered over the congregation. Drogo stood beside him, and they both looked awestruck by their surroundings.
The sister nuns, despite the hushed reverence of St. Andrews, were bickering again at the back wall of the cathedral.
The Highland woman had planted herself in the midst of some well-dressed nobles and was scrutinizing them from head to toe, almost like a cutpurse sizing up victims. Blade narrowed his gaze as she surreptitiously fondled the fabric of first one lady’s surcoat, then a gentleman’s cloak, and concluded she was only examining the quality of their garments.
Father Peter had cheerfully bullied his way to the front of the sanctuary, and Simon had used the priest’s considerable girth to clear the way.
He couldn’t locate the others. Where were Jacob and his two quarreling mistresses, Lettie and Brigit? Campbell and Guillot? The three scholars?
Were any of them brazen enough to commit murder in a sanctuary during Mass? Blade eyed the arch above him, wishing he could survey the congregation from that superior vantage point.
Mass began, and Blade shot one last uneasy glance toward Wilham, who was stationed at the opposing arch. Then he frowned. Wilham was gesturing emphatically, stabbing a finger toward the back of the cathedral. Blade cast a wary look over his shoulder. There was nothing he hadn’t seen before. Rose was near the door, and the two nuns were still speaking in furious whispers.
He shrugged at Wilham.
Wilham gestured again, more forcefully, toward the nuns.
Why Wilham was fascinated with the squabbling pair, Blade didn’t know, but he obliged him, turning to watch them again.
Ivy’s arms were crossed over her bosom, and she turned her back on Mary. Mary kicked Ivy in the shin, making the sister hop in silent pain. Then, for good measure, Mary elbowed her in the ribs.
Blade sighed in impatience and glowered at Wilham. Now was not the time to indulge in juvenile spectacles, no matter how entertaining.
Wilham frowned back and began making his way toward Blade. Meanwhile, Blade caught sight of Guillot. The lad stood beside one of the pillars, with tears in his eyes and his hand on the shoulder of Campbell, who knelt on the stones beside him. Neither seemed of a mind to commit murder.
“Did ye see?” Wilham whispered urgently, coming up beside him and seizing his arm.
“See what?”
“The nuns.”
“Wilham, we’re not here to—“
“Look!”
He glared down at his arm until Wilham released it, then turned to observe the nuns again.
Ivy bit out some invective to Mary. Mary’s mouth opened to a shocked “O.” Then Mary landed a healthy smack across Ivy’s face, skewing the nun’s wimple sideways.
Blade shook his head.
“Keep watchin’,” Wilham urged.
Ivy grimaced and ducked from the blows as Mary continued to slap at her, then snagged Ivy’s wimple with a vengeance.
“Wilham,” Blade said under his breath, “while ye’re watchin’ the wrestlin’ match, the murderers are—“
Mary suddenly tore Ivy’s wimple off and dropped it on the floor.
Blade couldn’t have been more astonished if a cart had run him over. It couldn’t be. And yet... Unless he was mistaken, there—limping in pain, wincing in humiliation, and scrambling to retrieve the wimple—stood young Archibald of Laichloan.
Blade glanced back at Wilham, baffled. But Wilham was already grinning like a smug halfwit.
“’Tis him, isn’t it?” Wilham whispered.
“What in the name o’...?”
“I thought that face looked familiar.”
“But why would he...? How...?”
“Let’s go find out,” Wilham suggested.
Blade agreed. Whatever was going on, the victim was now in sight. They might not know who planned to kill him, but they could keep him from being killed.
By the time they made their way to the imposters, Mary, done with her mayhem, stood in icy silence, while Archibald was still trying to repair his wimple.
Blade snagged the lad by his elbow, while Wilham offered his arm to Mary, and the four of them retreated to a dark corner of the cathedral.
Archibald might have suffered Mary’s attack, but he was having none of Blade’s authority.
“What’s the meanin’ o’ this?” the lad hissed, pulling his arm out of Blade’s grip.
“We know who ye are, Archie,” Blade confided.
The lad pouted, then turned to sneer at Mary. “Ye’ve ruined everythin’.”
“Ye’re in danger, lad,” Blade confided. “We’re here to keep ye safe.”
“Danger?” Panic widened his eyes. “What kind o’ danger? Is my father here?”
Blade intended to tell the lad there were assassins after him, but he didn’t know if he could trust Mary. “Who is she?” he said, nodding to the lass.
Archibald threw her a withering glare. “Nobody.”
Mary took offense at that and punched his shoulder.
Blade had to make Archibald understand. “Heed me well, lad. Someone’s plottin’ against ye. I heard them at The Black Hound the night before we left.”
The lad stuck out his lower lip. “Everyone’s plottin’ against me.” Then he narrowed his eyes at Blade. “I know ye, don’t I? Ye’re him—the one that killed his brother’s wife.”
Blade stiffened, and Wilham took over, seizing the lad by the front of his habit.
“Look, Archie, we have reason to believe there are assassins after ye.”
Wilham’s whisper proved too loud, and the people in front of him hissed at him to be quiet.
“Assassins?” Archibald squeaked. “But he can’t be that angry.”
“Who?” Blade asked, his hand going to the pommel of his sword.
“My father.”
Blade and Wilham exchanged glances.
Wilham spoke. “Why would your father be angry with ye?”
Blade took a guess. “Ye ran away from home.”
“What?” Wilham exploded.
The crowd scowled and hushed Wilham again.
“Didn’t ye?” Blade asked.
“Maybe,” the lad conceded.
“Why?”
Mary answered for him, glaring scornfully at Archibald. “He said we was goin’ to get married. He said he loved me. He said everythin’ would be rosy when we got to St. Andrews. But ‘tisn’t rosy, is it, Archie?”
The hair stiffened at the back of Blade’s neck as he recalled the exact words he’d overheard at The Black Hound. “Ye promised her that when ye got to St. Andrews, Archibald o’ Laichloan would be dead and forgotten.”
“Aye,” Mary replied with a sniff.
Blade sighed heavily, then grimaced and rubbed at the furrow between his brows.
Wilham threw up his hands. “God’s eyes.” As the crowd turned on him again with scowls of disapproval, he crossed himself, adding, “Are upon us all.”
Blade arched a brow at the runaway lad. “Let me see if I understand. Ye ran away with...” He gestured to Mary, who straightened proudly.
“I’m the miller’s daughter.”
“The miller’s daughter,” Blade repeated.
Archibald thrust out his chin. “I won’t be a pawn in my father’s game o’ chess. No one can tell me who I can and cannot wed.”
Blade’s jaw tightened as his patience wore thin. “So ye ran away together. And now?”
The lad shrugged. “I’ve had a change o’ heart.”
Mary sobbed once and punched him again in the shoulder.
Wilham shook his head. “So there are no assassins?” he asked.
“Apparently not,” Blade replied, “unless you count the miller, who will likely want to kill him.”
The lad scowled. “I won’t go back. Ye can’t make me—“
“Oh, ye’ll go back,” Wilham assured him, “at the point o’ my sword, if need be.”
Blade felt like a dolt. He’d been gulled by a child. There’d never been an assassination plot. Dead and forgotten indeed. The upstart lad had simply run away from home.
‘Twould doubtless prove an entertaining tale for supper. Rose would especially appreciate how a pair of nuns had fooled two seasoned knights.
Where was Rose anyway? He skimmed over the landscape of faces again, searching for her familiar countenance. Some movement at the door caught his eye—something flitting along the stones amongst the cripples and blind beggars—and all at once the world seemed to tilt on its axis.
Wink.
And she was alone.
Rose should have known.
Of course, Gawter would realize she’d gone to St. Andrews. ‘Twas practically her home. But since she hadn’t intended to return to Fernie House straightaway, she’d believed herself safe from him.
Her mistake was in forgetting the four men-at-arms he’d sent to follow the pilgrims, waiting for an opportunity to abduct her. There was only one place such a pilgrimage could end up. All Gawter had to do was ride swiftly to St. Andrews and wait.
Which he had.
And now he dragged her forcibly along the deserted streets, his face a mask of victorious fury. He’d snatched her so quickly, so unexpectedly within the sanctuary that she’d had no time to cry out. Once outside, when she’d recognized his sneering grin, she’d tried to shriek, but he’d muted her cries with a suffocating glove. Even then, she kicked and fought him, biting into his hand hard enough to pinch the flesh. But he was strong, and he lugged her down the lane with no more trouble than a falcon carrying off a struggling mouse.
The few indigent souls hobbling along the streets might have glanced briefly at the spectacle, but they knew better than to interfere with a nobleman. They cringed in reverence and scurried off like beetles.
"I warned ye, my bride," Gawter snarled as he jerked her along. "I warned ye what would happen."
Where he was taking her, she didn’t know. But she sensed that spot would mark her grave. They turned down lane after lane, each passageway becoming narrower than the last, the shops leaning closer and closer above like gathering crows watching their every move. The fog curled along the damp streets, disguising their passage, deadening their footfalls, and her one frail hope—that Blade would come for her—gradually evaporated like mist in sunlight.
Finally Gawter found what he desired—a dark, dismal corner between two slumping shops that looked to be abandoned. He hurled her forward toward a pile of moldering refuse. She stumbled to her hands and knees, gagging on the stench, and a pair of startled mice scuttled off along the wall.
The mice reminded her all at once of Wink. For one horrible moment, panic gripped her. What would become of her falcon? The bird was half-blind and crippled and lost among all those people within the sanctuary, people who might trample her in their carelessness.
Then she forced her racing pulse to calm. Wink would elude the crowd. Just as she’d eluded the wolves. Just as she’d eluded death. What had Rose told Blade? That she and Wink were survivors.
Her heart fortified, Rose staggered to her feet and faced her foe bravely. She wouldn’t beg for her life. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. But neither would she make it easy for him.
"My foster parents will find ye," she told him. "And when they do, your life will be forfeit."
"Hardly. Ye’re my betrothed, my...chattel. I may do with ye as I like." He leered, adjusting his gloves. He studied her for a moment, then arched a brow and chuckled low in surprise. "Oh, dear. Did ye think I meant to kill ye?"
Rose swallowed. If he didn’t mean to kill her, why had he dragged her to this deserted corner?
"Oh, nae, my darlin’ Rose," he told her, his silky voice at odds with his sinister bearing. "’Tis not so dire as that. Ye see, Averlaigh still lacks an heir, which ye’ll kindly provide." He surveyed the rotting shops, the pile of offal, the dank ground, taking a deep breath as if he relished the odor. "What do ye think? ‘Tis an idyllic spot to spawn."
Rose shuddered. Never. Never would she let him sully the beautiful memory she had of Blade. Never would she let him pollute the perfection of their union. "Ne’er."
"I thought ye might play the blushin’ virgin," he sighed. "But I suspect ‘tis a farce. My spies kept a close watch on ye and your lover."
"Your spies lie rottin’ in the woods."
She saw the rage simmer behind his eyes, but he clenched his teet
h against the urge to bite at her bait.
"Your champion was careless. He left a survivor who confirmed where ye were headed," he sneered, "and on whose arm."
"Then ye know I’ll ne’er submit to ye."
"Oh, but ye will," he assured her. "Didn’t your mother tell ye? I’m a master o’ seduction."
He tightened the glove on his hand, flexed his fingers, and before she could grasp his intent, drove his fist forward into the tender flesh of her cheek.
She fell backward, cutting her hand and bruising her hip. Splinters of pain radiated from her cheek as the cut reopened, and her vision swam in a watery blur.
No one was going to save her, she realized. No one would witness his crime. No one would hear her screams.
But she vowed she’d die before he could infect her with his seed.
The beggar lifted a scabbed finger toward the dingy lane, and Blade tossed him a coin. Blade—his chest heaving with the exertion of his harried search—had to use stealth now. He was close to his quarry.
Like a slinking wolf, he slipped along the passage, his pulse throbbing, his ears straining. Then he heard voices from around the next bend.
Cautiously easing around the shop on the corner and peering down the lane, he saw the flash of a blood-red tabard a moment before he heard the dull thud of fist hitting flesh. For an instant, the sound paralyzed him. How many nights at Mirkhaugh had he slept with his hands pressed to his ears, trying in vain to shut out that grotesque sound?
But then the memory of Rose—young and innocent and sweet—assailed him. The vision brought him to his senses like a sobering slap, freeing his frozen limbs.
Rage outweighed caution. He charged forward with a roar, unsheathing as he came, his blood seething.
"To me, sirrah!" he shouted.
The man wheeled about lazily, and his voice dripped with sarcasm. "Ah, your hero has arrived, my darlin’."
"Draw your steel!" Blade commanded, advancing.
He couldn’t bear to look at his fallen Rose for fear that what he saw might unman him. But from the corner of his eye, he saw her move. Thank God, she was still alive.
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