Becca St.John (15 page)

She’d spent the last of the afternoon walking pastures, popping her head into paddocks and stalls, asking every person she saw if they’d seen a horse with the deep grey and white markings of a peregrine falcon, darker head and back, white chest with grey spots. A horse as fast as its namesake.

She’d walked and asked and pounded on doors, even after shutters had been shut and barred for the night. She’d walked through the setting of the sun into the wee hours of darkness, skirting the crier for fear he’d report her to the guard. Even then, she risked her whistle, certain her horse would respond if he couldn’t get to her. He knew her whistle, she’d been using it since he was a foal. She’d trained him well. Still, he didn’t respond.

She’d asked Angelica, who claimed ignorance, but didn’t have the heart to pressure the lass. She was far too fearful already to play a hand at intrigue.

Of those who would hide the horse, none were so cruel to risk Deian finding him. His first thought would be that Seonaid was near and, when he couldn’t find her, he’d assume she was dead. It didn’t matter that she intended to leave him, never see him again. With her plan, her loss would be a gradual thing, not sudden, no shock. Like a boy going to a great lord for fostering. So how did she know the horse thief would protect her lad?

Padraig.

No one else would stop her from what she wanted to do. Just Padraig. She’d kill anyone else for attempting a trick like this. She might just kill Padraig, but first she had to get into the keep, find him, see how badly he was hurt and, if possible, hurt him more.

Anger dissolved despair. She’d get Peregrine, knew how, all she had to do was pretend to be a healer. It would be easier if she were outside the gates and in the village. Then she’d go to the cottage and get Angelica to take her into the keep. But she was not outside the gates, which were closed and guarded for the night. No doubt the guard would let her leave. Getting back in again was another matter.

But there was another option.

vvvvvv

Padraig, weak from his wound, Angus full of drink, they made it back to their respective places before the fire with no more trouble than a bit of swaying.

“You,” Angus pointed at the pallet on the floor. “Back to your sick bed,” he ordered.

Jasmine had straightened the bedding, so it was nice and tidy and welcoming. It was also low to the ground. Good thing the injury wasn’t to his leg. Still, he hesitated long enough that Angus pushed him down by his shoulder.

His injured shoulder.

He heard the yell, the scream, mingle with black spots as he crumpled to the floor.

His yell, the healer’s scream.

“What?” Angus looked about. “What did I do?”

The friar managed to lift his bulk from the far bench, walked over to Angus. “You grabbed his wound.”

“Och, I’ve had too much to drink.”

“Aye,” the friar agreed, “as have I.”

“It’s late,” Angus said.

“It is that.” The friar looked at Padraig, as Jasmine inspected his wound. Bleeding again. “I’d hoped to speak with him, but no doubt, she’ll be giving him something to make him sleep.”

“How am I to sleep when they’re in my chamber?” Angus groused, as if it was his sleeping they talked about.

“Surely you’ve slept around others before,” the friar said.

“Och, aye, when out at battle, but those were men, my men. I’m not used to sleeping with women around.”

In a surly growl, Padraig asked, “Why did you put me in here in the first place? You should have put me in the guards’ room.”

Angus shot out of his chair. “With Alissa?” he barked. “You must be mad, mon. I’d not leave her chaperoned with the likes of you, even in your sniveling state, let alone the men of the guard. And there’s no stopping her playing lady of the manor. No, she must be the one to tend to those in need. Bloody woman.” He fell back into the arms of his chair, as though his tirade drained all his senses. “She’s a proper lady, you know.”

“So that’s the way of it?” Padraig realized. Angus hadn’t placed him in the chief’s chamber because of a friendship that lasted decades, built fighting side by side, trusting another to have your back. No, Angus had Padraig in his chamber so he could keep track of Lady Alissa.

Angus managed to raise an eyebrow. “And what of the lady you asked after? Is it Seonaid? The whole world thinks you followed her and her boy.”

“Don’t be daft,” Padraig growled. “The lad’s ma is missing, they were separated. She needs to be found.”

“The boy, Eban?” Angus scratched his thick beard, his head tilted thoughtfully.

“Aye.”

“Seonaid traveled with a lad.”

“Argh,” Padraig shifted, fighting pain on so many levels. “Do you think I’d not know what they looked like? I’ve known the lass since she was no taller than a table top.”

“Just saying, odd to hear of two lasses traveling the wilds alone with their lads.”

“Seonaid wouldn’t lose her boy,” he griped, because that’s exactly what she was doing. Losing her lad, and it had to be killing her.

“Hmmmm,” the friar intoned.

Padraig jerked his gaze to the friar. He’d thought the man had fallen asleep, but he hadn’t. He sat on a winged-back bench, partially hidden behind the high sides, most definitely not asleep. His eyes on the fire, palms together, as though in prayer, fingers tapping his lips.

“What?” Padraig asked, unnerved by the friar’s rapid sobering. He looked about for the healer.

“She’s gone,” the friar told him, never having taken his eyes from the fire.

“Probably needs more bandages,” Angus muttered. “That woman changes your bandages more often than a new mam changes her nipper’s nappies.”

“Cleanliness, key to their ability, much like one of those Jewish doctors,” the friar mused at the fire. “Baffling that Christian doctors don’t see the evil in dirt.” He
tsk
ed, shook his head, sighed, and lowered his hands to look at Padraig.

Padraig’s heart stopped, like a mouse faced with a snake. Except this wasn’t malevolent. No, this was worse. No judgment, no malicious maneuvers. Free of motive outside of knowing.

This friar could uncover a heart, see truths, lies, reveal goodness and sins. This was not a bumbling intoxicated friar. This was a man so steeped in faith he viewed straight through one’s heart into their soul.

Angus nudged Padraig in the back with his foot, “Your mouth’s hanging open.”

Padraig took a breath. And it was over. The friar looked at the fire again, released him from an uncanny hold.

“What?” he snapped, not at Angus, but at the friar.

Padraig did not believe in God. He did not believe in seeing beyond what was there, right in front of your eyes.

And if there is more, right there in front of your eyes?

There wasn’t.

But if there were?

He scrambled to rise, to move, to escape this strange feeling. Angus bent toward him, a hand to his shoulder, as the door opened.

Both healers were back to torture him. Padraig lay back, irritated by his weakness, unwilling to be grateful, despite feeling much better, itching to move because he could, after days of being too weak to even sit.

He should be grateful.

He felt like an angry bear caught in a thicket.

The women bustled about, putting fresh jugs on the table, laying out fresh linen for bandages. There was even food.

Of course, that was his problem; he was starving. It made him light-headed, weak in the noggin, so he thought bizarre things when everything was as it should be. He watched the women, willed them to bring him food.

Angus leaned over. “Now there are two—” he pushed two fingers in Padraig’s face, “—two women in my chamber when I need sleep.”

“Then sleep.”

Angus grunted. “And snore and fart in their presence? These are healers, mon.” he hissed. “Legends in their own time. These are not your ordinary maids.” He sank back in his chair, but not before grabbing his flask, ensuring it still had a proper dram in it.

Padraig figured the man would drink himself to sleep soon enough.

“Angelica?” the friar called out, “Did you have a good rest?”

“Angelica is still resting.” Jasmine told him, as she carried a large plate of food over to the fire. “Could you pull that stool over for me to put this on?” she asked the friar, who did as she requested.

She set the plate, piled with hunks of break, cheese and sliced meat, and a bowl on the low bench. Padraig reached for some bread, but she stilled his hand. “I’ve something in the pot over the fire for you.”

Ready for anything, even the thinnest of gruels, he waited, impatient, as she went about preparing his first sup in days. He couldn’t stand the wait, distracted himself by looking about the chamber, at the other woman, cloaked and in shadow.

If he’d been a dog, his ears would have risen to attention. Tall and lean, she moved with the grace of a faerie.

Seonaid
.

Her presence sang through his blood. His heart, stopped only moments ago, now pumped with the vigor of an untried lad. Every ache and pain receded as he watched her cross the room to sit on the small pallet the healer had prepared for herself. He’d know her movements anywhere.

She thought herself masculine. He shook his head. Fluid she was, like water or a leaf floating to ground, at ease with space in a way she would never be around people. She lowered herself, to sit cross-legged. Another sign it was Seonaid. No demure curling of her legs to the side, or sitting back on her calves. No, legs crossed, as one would with the comfort of trews.

Only she wasn’t a man, and the skirt of her coarse bliaut didn’t allow the position, not wide enough for her knees to splay. So she brought them to her chest, held them close, head bowed.

Look up at me.
He willed her and, just like that, she did. She looked straight at him with those violet eyes of hers.

“So tell me about this woman. What did you call her, Seonaid?” the friar asked.

Seonaid’s head jerked.
Good for her,
he smirked, as he turned back to find a bowl of gruel there before him, the healer, Jasmine, ready with a spoon.

“Oh ho!” Angus jeered. “And that’s a tale to tell.”

Padraig thought to stop him, but didn’t know just how, other than to say, “You’ve never met the lass, Angus, what do you know?”

Angus touched his finger to his nose. “Stories travel fast in the highlands, Padraig. You know that, I know that, which is why the lass is gone.”

“So all you know are stories.” He stopped, as Jasmine pushed a full spoon into his mouth. “That’s…” She shoved another in. “What, stop…” he mumbled around a full mouth.

Angus didn’t wait for him to swallow. “She’s the most beautiful lass in the highlands,” he told the friar. “Fair skin, despite being touched by the sun. She spends a great deal of time out of doors, you see. And her hair…” Angus sighed and looked to the ceiling. “They say it’s dark as night, thick and straight and shines like a polished stone.”

“Stop lusting after her!” Padraig ordered, only to have his mouth filled again.

These healers were an aggressive lot.

Angus sat forward, keen on his telling. “She doesn’t dress so much as a lad, but like a warrior. Can out-fence the best of them, and no one shoots an arrow as straight as Seonaid. She’s been the pride of the highlands since she was old enough to be known. Talk of the whole land.”

The friar’s brow knotted as he leaned into Angus’s story. “So why did she run?”

“Dark secrets came to the fore.” Angus sat back, nursed his drink.

Padraig’s sigh of relief came too soon.

“And because her hands were bloody and her boy, well…”

“Stop your telling!” Padraig tipped Jasmine over, as he scrambled to get up, to challenge Angus. “You know nothing!”

“Her son is her brother’s son!” Angus antagonized. “But not by her choice.” Padraig rose, to meet Angus face to face. “And her brother was the heathen who gathered lasses for slavery.”

Padraig shoved Angus, but being the weaker of the two, managed only to unsteady himself rather than budge the other man. “Hold still, mon.” Angus gripped Padraig’s shoulder; his good shoulder this time. “It’s no secret. The lass is a victim of her own kin as much as those lasses he stole from beneath their ma’s noses. Evil bastard that he was.”

Padraig couldn’t help it, he turned to Seonaid, to see how she fared, hearing what she’d only heard in her own mind, from her own mouth. Never had the words been said to her.

But she wasn’t there.

“You bastard.” He pushed with his good shoulder, sent Angus backward, stepped over Jasmine, who was on the floor cleaning up the mess he’d made when he toppled her and her gruel, and strode toward the door. “She was here! Here, in this damn cell of a room and now she’s gone. Damn you!”

He pulled the door open and stood on the threshold, unfamiliar with the keep. He hadn’t a clue where he was, let alone where she would have gone. Bloody Angus had said enough for her to scurry into some hidey-hole where no one would find her.

“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary,” he bellowed down the dark corridor.

Angus pushed his way past Padraig and signaled. “Come on, you, she’ll have gone this way.”

Using strength he’d have doubted an hour ago, Padraig kept up with Angus. They ran down the corridor, a flight of steps, and out a door. They stood at the top of the steps looking over the courtyard at a woman fleeing the empty ground.

“Get back here you weak-kneed vixen!” Padraig bellowed, pleased to see her hesitate, pivot.

Angus must have gestured his gate guards, for they began closing in from behind her.

Unaware of the movement, she shouted back. “You’ve stolen my mount. I’d like him back.”

Closer, the men moved in, but he didn’t dare look at Angus to see what he signaled, lest she figure out what was happening.

“Aye, well,” Unsteady, he started down the steep steps, the wall on his injured side, “I’ll tell you where he is once we’ve had a word.”

“There’s naught to say.” She stepped back, as if his approach threatened from over half a courtyard away. Then spun to find the guard far closer than Padraig. She spun back, shaking her fist. “Angus Reah, you’ve no reason to hold me here!”