Page 31

The robe he was using for a habit was far too short, so he had to walk hunched over like an old woman.

He fashioned a length of linen into a veil and another he pinned to the veil as a makeshift wimple.

There was nothing he could do about his boots or the shadow of a beard on his face.

So he provided distraction by way of a knobbed branch he used as a walking stick, waving it about cantankerously, forcing bystanders to keep their distance.

He’d had to sell the horse. There was no way to explain why an elderly nun would ride a fine steed.

Consequently, it took him four times as long as it should have to cover the distance to the nunnery at Glasgow.

By the time he arrived at the convent, he ached from miles of hunching, limping, and brandishing the staff.

The one blessing was that night had fallen.

Thus the abbess took pity on the aged sister and didn’t look too closely in the dark at her manly boots or her stubbled chin.

Adam discovered, to his dismay, the nuns ate like birds. It was a good thing he’d availed himself of Aillenn’s hard cheese and oatcakes, for supper was a disappointing bowl of thin neep pottage and horsebread.

But what he lacked in nourishment, he made up for in news.

After supper, Adam overheard three sisters in the cloister having a discussion about the king in hushed tones. His ears perked up.

“Did ye hear about Laird Fergus o’ Galloway and the king?” one of them murmured. “Rumor has it—”

“Rumor?” a second sister scolded. “Pah!”

“This ‘rumor’ I heard from the abbot himself.”

“Ah, then ’tisn’t a rumor,” opined a third. “’Tis practically Gospel.”

“What did he say?”

“He said the king is preparin’ an attack on Galloway.”

Adam frowned.

“What? I thought peace was made at Perth.”

“Aye,” the third agreed. “By an emissary o’ the Pope.”

Adam had to smile at that.

“’Twas,” the first said, “among the other lairds. But Fergus wasn’t at Perth.”

“I should think the king would be happy Fergus didn’t lay siege with the others.”

“That’s just it, “the first nun whispered. “I think the other lairds may be sidin’ against Fergus.”

“What?” said the second.

“What?” said the third.

“Think about it,” the first confided. “Fergus has been a thorn in the side o’ the other lairds for years. Wreakin’ havoc. Sackin’ their villages. I think they convinced the king to attack Fergus first so they can exact their own vengeance.”

“Ooh, that’s clever.”

“Wait. Do ye have proof o’ this?”

“Nay, but consider,” the first replied. “The king has been in France for a year. Why would he care a whit about Fergus?”

“True.”

“The lairds, though, they’ve had Fergus nippin’ at their heels, raidin’ their land, stealin’ their cattle. They have reason to despise him.”

“Well,” the second said, “I suppose Fergus does need to be taught a lesson then. He can’t go on bludgeonin’ his neighbors.”

“Right,” said the third. “The king can’t have his lairds bickerin’ among themselves o’er every wee thing.”

“Do ye think Fergus knows the king is comin’?” the second asked.

The first replied, “He’s likely got spies in the king’s army.”

The other two gasped.

She went on to say, “And if he’s got men on the inside…”

“Fergus will know where to waylay the king.”

“Right.”

There was a long pause while they thought this over.

“Do ye suppose the king will be comin’ past Glasgow on his way to Galloway?”

“’Tis likely.”

“Ooh. I’ve ne’er seen the king.”

“Nor have I.”

“I’ve heard he’s the picture o’ chivalry.”

“And quite devout.”

The conversation continued as the sisters compared reports about the magnificent king they’d never seen, reports that were largely unsubstantiated.

Adam knew Malcolm. While it was true the young king was chivalrous, devout, and somewhat of a romantic, he was weak of body and easily manipulated by flattery.

His reason for going to France had been self-indulgent.

He could now claim the questionable honor of having been knighted by the English King Henry.

But despite his shortcomings, for centuries the Rivenlochs had been fiercely loyal to the Crown. If the king meant to attack Fergus at Galloway, the Rivenlochs would be at the forefront of the fighting.

What Adam and the lairds knew—what the king may not be fully aware of—was how much land Fergus had already acquired through his underhanded, tyrannical tactics. Reiving livestock. Burning fields. Raiding cottages.

There had long been rumblings among the Rivenlochs about Fergus’s ambitions to create his own empire in the west. Because his loyalty wavered, Fergus might as easily pledge his land to the English king as the Scottish monarch. And that would threaten all of Scotland.

Adam would be damned if he would surrender the centuries-old Rivenloch estate to the English.

It was his responsibility to protect his clan. That meant he had to find a way to give the king the advantage against Fergus.

Adam retired to the cell the nuns had offered him. He lit the sconce and sat on the thin pallet that was definitely not goose-down.

What was the best way to help the king?

He’d go to Galloway, he decided. He’d spy on Laird Fergus. Using a false identity, Adam could become a trusted ally to Fergus and learn what kind of fighting force he had. Who his strongest warriors were. What weaponry they preferred. Where their weaknesses lie.

So busy was Adam concocting his strategy, he forgot for a moment about the woman he was supposed to be following. He was abruptly reminded when he opened the satchel, searching for possibilities for a new disguise.

Aillenn’s flowery scent, lingering on the scarlet velvet of her gown, wafted out of the satchel, transporting him immediately to the heavenly night of their tryst.

It would be a long while before that memory would fade.

But for now he had to push it aside.

Sorting through the garments, he decided they were completely inadequate. Too small. Too tight. Too frail. He had to find Aillenn and get his satchel back. It was a matter of life and death.

Now that he was on a royal mission, he needed every tool he owned. Not the least of which was his Rivenloch medallion. If things became desperate, his true identity—his tie to the Rivenloch clan—was his defense of last resort.

The coat of mail felt even heavier on Eve’s body than it had in the satchel. Perhaps because it added to the guilt already weighing heavily on her shoulders.

It was ludicrously long, hanging past her knees. But she figured she could pass for a young knight who’d inherited his older brother’s armor.

Adam also had bits of plate armor in his satchel—epaulets, poleyns, sabatons. But they were difficult to attach without the help of a squire. The mail would have to do.

Adam’s boots were huge. But she would make them work. She supposed, as with hounds, it wasn’t unusual for a lad’s feet to grow first before the rest caught up. Still, she needed to stuff them with linen just to walk without blistering her heels.

She slipped his blue tabard over the mail. Then she affixed his sheathed dagger to his belt and buckled the belt around the tabard, making sure it wouldn’t drag on the ground.

She secured her hair with a leather tie and settled his chain mail coif over her head.

This new character would be Sir Peredur from Gwynedd.

For simplicity’s sake, she decided his mother and father had died of fever.

His older brother had been killed in battle, leaving Peredur his armor.

He was a mercenary, lending his loyalty and his sword—or in this case, his dagger—to a laird who would see him housed and fed.

She imagined she did look like Peredur, the hero in the lore of Cymru, who’d only seen knights from afar and tried to emulate their appearance with the materials at hand. At least she hadn’t needed to resort to wearing a bucket on her head or wielding a weapon made of wood.

Of course, Eve didn’t plan to fight. She’d simply offer her services for hire to the captain of the guard and leave on the morrow. The disguise was good enough to gain her entrance, a meal, and a place to sleep for the night at Rowallan Castle.

The fact that she had to bed down on the stone floor of the armory, crowded in between the sweaty, smelly, snoring ranks of the Rowallan men-at-arms would have been mortifying to any of her sisters at the convent.

But Eve had never been afraid of new experiences.

That, of course, was what often got her into trouble.

She never backed down from the challenges God put in her path, whether that meant dining with a king or sleeping in a stable.

Rescuing a drowning lamb or saving a servant from a beating.

Abducting a Rivenloch bride or exploring her own carnal desires with a handsome outlaw.

She furrowed her brows as she burrowed further under the thin wool coverlet someone had thrown her, using her satchel to distance the warrior next to her who kept trying to cuddle in his sleep.

If only he could be Adam, she thought with a sigh. She hadn’t realized how much she would miss him. His warmth. His gentleness. His affection.

She wondered… Could her sensual exploration with Adam have been part of God’s plan?

If so, what had been its purpose?

If it was only to teach her not to succumb to worldly temptations, it seemed like an unnecessarily heavy-handed lesson that had come at a cruel price.

And the curious thing was leaving earthly pleasure behind didn’t make her feel more devoted to the Lord. Indeed, she’d never felt less connected to God. She felt abandoned.

Adam had never made her feel abandoned. He’d insisted on following her everywhere. He’d cared for her. Protected her. Made her feel bright and beautiful. Visible.

And when he’d joined with her in body, in heart, in spirit, she’d never felt closer to the angels or more convinced of God’s miracles.

Tears started in her eyes at the memory.