Claire Delacroix (7 page)

Her prices were high, but I could not blame her for making the most of what opportunity she had in this remote place to better her circumstances. A baby cried from the hut behind her as she ladled out four cups of her brew at my request and her hand shook as she glanced back over her shoulder.

“It is no weather for a sick child,” I said as I deliberately folded her hand over the coins I paid. I knew the moment she realized that there was one too many in her grip. The corners of her tight mouth lifted for a heartbeat, then her fist disappeared into the folds of her cloak.

She peered at me, as if unfamiliar with kindness from strangers, and I wondered again how much she could see. The weight of her gaze made my flesh creep, so odd were her eyes. I had the sense that she could read my very thoughts, that she knew my identity and my intent. I feared for a moment what she might say.

“No, sir, it is not,” she said. “I thank you for your trade.” She nodded and turned to her next patron.

We stepped away, clicked our pottery mugs together and drank deeply. It was even worse swill than that in York, but I was so glad to have reached my objective that it might have been the richest mead. I drained the cup in one grateful gulp.

“Woho! You will be beggared before the night is through, at such a rate,” teased the first man.

I took a closer look at my companions now. The man who had greeted me first was dark and the tallest of the company, his bushy brows supporting a ledge of snow. Since our greeting, he seemed inclined to listen to the others more often than speaking himself. Indeed, his gaze oft strayed over the village, as if he sought someone. He was a handsome man, in a rough way, and more than one damsel tried to flirt with him while passing. I silently named him ‘Tall’.

The second was stout, robust apparently in both appetite and manner. He was fair, and his cheeks bloomed with healthy color. His laugh rang loudly and frequently, and he seemed a merry companion. ‘Fat’ would serve as his name.

The third - he who had owned the horse - was quieter and darker, a small, sinewy man who was probably much stronger than he appeared. His eyes were dark and his nose sharp. He seemed to regard all around him with a certain grim pessimism. In keeping with the other names, I called him ‘Dour’.

“Too many have come to see whether the laird can work a miracle,” said Tall, then drank of his ale.

Miracle? My ears pricked, though I said nothing. Talk of miracles oft indicates that I am in the vicinity of a religious relic worthy of my attention. I wondered…but peered into my cup as if disinterested.

“And thus the ale is in short supply,” added Dour. “Rural folk have no ability to plan for such matters.”

“True enough,” concurred Fat. “Were we in London, or even Edinburgh, the alewives would have made triple their normal batches to ensure supply, but not here.”

Dour frowned into his cup. “Though the town prices would have been no lower than the prices here.”

They laughed together at this truth, then acquired another round from the alewife, each paying for their own this time. Again, I was generous, and this time, she spared me a smile. I asked after a stall for the horse and we walked toward the home of the villager most likely to accommodate me.

* * *

In the course of conversation with these rural louts, I learned a considerable amount of useful information.

Item the first: The old laird of Inverfyre had died some five years past and, being without a son, had chosen a comrade of his named Fergus of Balquhidder as the new laird.

Item the second: Approval of Fergus’ leadership had not been universal, and that approval had been eroded by Inverfyre’s failing fortunes after the old laird’s death. Fergus lived lavishly while those beneath his hand suffered poverty.

Item the third: There had been whispers that Fergus’ lairdship was cursed. It had long been held that the Lairds of Inverfyre were divinely favored as custodians for the relic of the
Titulus Croce
. Fergus had not displayed the relic upon Christmas and Easter, as tradition demanded, thus feeding speculation that he had lost both it and divine favor.

(I shall spare you the tedious and heroic details associated with this custodianship, as they were typical of this ilk of tale. I endeavored to not yawn, knowing full well that this first laird had simply pilfered his prize from some Outremer shrine. Not unlike others engaged in such deeds, he had then embellished his thievery with tales of portentous dreams, divine favor, and miracles that flowed as a result of his own extreme piety.)

Item the fourth: Challenged openly by my newfound comrade ‘Tall’ some weeks ago, Fergus had insisted that he would display the
Titulus
upon this night - the feast of Paul’s conversion - that the dissenters be converted to the truth, just as Saint Paul himself was said to see the light.

I had inadvertently arrived at the perfect time.

Further, if Evangeline was associated with Fergus and the maintenance of his suzerainty, her motives in stealing the
Titulus
were very clear.

I sipped of my ale with satisfaction, intrigued that there had only been speculation upon the absence of the relic for the past five years. I knew that the true
Titulus
had been in my father’s possession for fifteen years.

I stifled a smile at the unexpected cunning of these barbarians. Evidently the exalted dead laird had seen fit to do a little forgery of his own after my father and I had visited his keep. How interesting. How enterprising. How uncommon.

Perhaps Evangeline had participated in his ruse. Perhaps she was responsible for the ruse and had to recover the genuine relic to hide her guilt. She certainly had the wits for it.

I confess that I found myself even more intrigued with my lovely thief than before.

I looked up at the keep looming high before us. It was built into the side of the hill and had the advantage that it would be spectacularly easy to defend. Why anyone would trouble to defend a sorry piece of turf in this wretched clime was beyond my comprehension, but I can appreciate good construction.

It oft provides boon or bane to my missions. I looked now, assessing the chances of slipping unknown into the stronghold of the keep. It would be difficult, for only one gate broached the wall, and the wall rose high on either side. Behind the main gates and the tower that must be the hall, a pointed roof was starkly etched against the snowy sky. A crucifix graced its summit, just as I recalled. My pulse quickened in recognition of my ultimate destination.

How sweet that the relic was in the same reliquary from which I had stolen it before! I had half-feared that Evangeline would have hidden it elsewhere, but even if she had, on this night it would be in the chapel.

One night was all I needed, after all.

“The truth is that it matters little whether the relic is there.” Tall spoke with such vigor that we all fell silent to listen to his words. He looked suddenly taller, more regal, a man with something to prove. He spoke with the ferocity of a man convinced of his view. “Fergus is a poor leader, either way, a man too far into his dotage to lead Inverfyre.”

“The old laird chose him, Niall,” Fat reminded him.

“The old laird was wrong,” Niall, or Tall, said flatly. He looked both grim and determined. “We should seize whatever tools we must to oust Fergus afore it is too late, and you know it as well as I do, Tarsuinn.”

Tarsuinn, or Fat, looked uncomfortable, and so he should for this was traitorous talk. “He has agreed to produce the relic on this night,” he said, new caution in his tone.

“So he has. What we must decide, comrades, is what we shall do when he fails.” Niall flung aside his cup. “Or what we shall do if he claims to have succeeded.”

The men shifted uneasily, the other two clearly not at ease with Niall’s rebellious tone.

“We owe no less to Inverfyre and the memory of our old laird.” Niall looked fiercely at each of us in turn, seeking support he did not find. I held his gaze for a moment, surprised by the fury in his eyes, knowing that he must be puzzled by the indifference in mine. The chapel bell began to toll and Niall spun away from the group, striding toward the chapel without glancing back.

Tarsuinn cleared his throat. “It will be a relief to know the
Titulus
where it belongs. Even Niall’s worries will be set to rest.” Dour nodded vigorous agreement to this and Tarsuinn was obviously encouraged. “Indeed, Inverfyre has been blessed as no other holding in all the lands of the King of Scotland.”

I bit my tongue at that. To be blessed was clearly a question of perspective. Sicily is blessed, in my opinion, as are Venice and Constantinople. They are blessed with sunlight and prosperity. No place where a man had to endure such cold as this and such hardship as could be seen in the faces of these residents could be called blessed, not to my thinking.

“It would be a sorry day that its laird proved himself an incompetent custodian of God’s trust,” Dour intoned, and the pair looked to me.

I smiled. “Let us pray that none are disappointed on this night.”

“There is trouble in the wind this night,” Dour said beneath his breath and even Tarsuinn looked uneasy. I stifled a smile.

Trouble, in fact, had bought them each a cup of ale.

* * *

The chapel was of goodly size and solidly built. I pulled my hood over my head as I crossed the threshold, hiding my features in its shadows. Though still damp, the chapel was warm enough to melt the snow and light enough to reveal that I was not in fact Connor MacDoughall.

Whoever that man might happen to be.

He might even be here. How strange a prospect!

I found myself conveniently near the altar, surrounded by fighting men who were clearly sworn to the lord. Niall was not alone in his dissatisfaction, apparently, for there was more than one skeptical expression in this company. The doors were closed behind the assembly of villagers and warriors, allowing a meager warmth to gather. Prayers were murmured all around me, but I did not pray.

Instead, I seized the chance to study the chapel that I would have to raid again without anyone realizing what I did.

The hewn stones that formed the walls were huge but expertly fitted. None of them would be loose, I knew. There was solely one door and the sanctuary itself was simply a large room. There was not so much as an alcove in its walls and no shadow where one might hide. The floor was stone, and I guessed that no crypt was carved out of the rock below.

There was only one window, high above the table that served as an altar. It was small and filled with a colored glass depiction of the crucifixion. The window was quite splendid, if small, and could fetch a goodly price. I was certain it had not been there before, as I had used that opening to fetch the
Titulus
the last time.

Of course, I was not quite as lithe and agile as I had been in my youth. I studied the window, surprised to find such artistry in such a remote place, though it was common enough in the great cathedrals. These lairds had either been far wealthier than I had imagined or fools with their coin.

They might be devout. I would have to remember that. This beleaguered Fergus might seek to quietly replace the
Titulus
with a greater treasure if his suzerainty rested upon such trinkets.

Other than the window, now obstructed with glass, the sole access to the chapel was the door, which would surely be locked or watched or both.

I peered through the haze of incense and smoke from the candles at the altar, seeking to confirm the relic’s location. I was disinterested in the richly embroidered cloth covering what appeared to be solely a table, and spared only a brief assessment for the chalice and charger wrought of pounded silver.

They might be worth taking along, although there were not particularly remarkable. It would depend upon their weight and how much time I had.

There was no sign of the relic upon the altar. The reliquary that I had once robbed no longer lurked there, nor was it in the hands of the monks standing solemnly behind the altar. The four monks began to chant as the two on either end swung the brass censers.

“Let the festivities begin,” I muttered to none in particular.

My eyes narrowed as the company of monks parted and moved to either side of the altar. A wooden door was revealed in the back wall of the chapel, directly below the stained glass window.

It had not been there before.

I almost smiled that my theft had prompted a more secure reliquary for the relic - or whatever they had shown in its stead. One monk held a great brass key, I saw now.

I dearly love brass keys. They are so large and solid that they inspire confidence - yet their tumblers are clumsy and easily encouraged even without the key. The keys themselves are easily borrowed, hooked and dropped precisely where one wishes to drop them, because of their weight.

I was much reassured. I scanned the company unobtrusively, seeking Evangeline, but she was not present. I must have been more overt than I thought, for I glanced up to find Niall’s assessing gaze upon me. He looked away as soon as I noted his perusal of me, leaving me wondering what conclusion he might have made.