Page 41

Sometimes Adam had to marvel at just how invisible he was.

Fergus’s men didn’t seem to notice he’d been gone for the better part of two days, competing in the tournament at Darragh.

At least once a sennight, he wandered afield to report to the king, yet no one missed him.

And now the two commanders muttering together in Fergus’s armory paid no heed to the fact that Adam sat nearby, absently polishing his sword while hanging on their every word.

They debated in hushed tones of fear and anger and frustration.

“We’re outnumbered, I tell ye. The king will slaughter the whole clan.”

“For a wee bit o’ raidin’? Ballocks.”

“’Tis more than raidin’, and ye know it. Fergus has…ambitions.”

“He only wants to take back what’s rightfully ours.”

“Reivin’ cattle is one thing. But why is he besiegin’ holdin’s that ne’er belonged to us? And why is he collectin’ oaths o’ fealty from other clans?”

“To keep the peace.”

“He doesn’t want peace. He wants power.”

“Is that so bad? It seems the king would rather dally in France than rule at home.”

“He’s not in France now. He came home to Scotland, and now he’s at our threshold. He’s already laid two villages to waste.”

Adam blinked. Was that true? Spying on Fergus’s movements for the king, he hadn’t paid much heed to the king’s movements.

“All the more reason to defend ourselves and fight back.”

“Against the entire royal army?”

There was a long silence before the second man admitted in a very quiet voice, “Some are sayin’ Fergus has been drinkin’ mead and sharin’ a table with the English.”

“Which proves my point. Fergus doesn’t mean to stop with clan land. He’s formin’ an alliance with our enemy. He’s got his eye set on rulin’ the whole west o’ Scotland.”

“Aye? So? What’s wrong with that? With the English fightin’ beside us…”

“Ye trust the English? Once they’ve got their claws into Fergus land, ye think they’ll hand it o’er to the laird with a wink and a smile?”

The other man sighed.

“And then where will we be?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Trapped between the Scottish king and the bloody English with nowhere to go.”

“Hell.”

“Right. We’re already losin’ too many. And Malcolm’s troops aren’t only attackin’ the men-at-arms. He’s goin’ after the villages. Our women. And children.”

“So what do we do?”

“God knows.”

They suddenly noticed Adam and started.

“Shite! How long have ye been there?”

Adam shrugged.

They frowned at him, but must have decided he looked too simple to understand what they were discussing.

“Come on,” one of them said to the other, nodding toward the door. “The walls have ears.”

They left while Adam appeared to continue obliviously polishing his sword.

Mad thoughts, however, churned through his brain.

Could what they said be true?

The king had been less than forthcoming about his advances.

Was it as the men claimed? Had Malcolm attacked Fergus women and children? Burned crops? Decimated villages?

The thought left a sour taste in his mouth. While the Rivenlochs had always been loyal to the king, they had never condoned unchivalrous warfare. And Adam knew they wouldn’t condone it now.

He was torn.

He couldn’t live with himself if those villages had been destroyed because of information he’d shared with Malcolm.

And yet he couldn’t commit treason against the Crown by withholding information from the king that might get his troops killed.

He needed to talk to Malcolm, face to face. Get him to disclose his next plan of attack. And report back to Fergus with an early alert.

With forewarning, at least someone would be there for defense. There might be a brief skirmish, but fewer casualties, and there would time to evacuate innocents.

Adam hoped the two sides could ultimately settle things without a battle. The Rivenloch clan was always happy to defend Scotland against foreign invaders. But they hated to get involved in clan wars.

Unfortunately, it sounded as if Fergus’s commanders had had no success in curbing their laird’s appetite for land.

Perhaps Adam could convince the king it was a mistake to make an enemy of England, particularly in light of his recent friendship with King Henry.

And then he might be able to persuade Fergus to relinquish the idea of expanding his holdings and instead be grateful for the full return of his ancestral clan lands.

The negotiation would be a complex undertaking. But Adam was sure he was the best Rivenloch for the task.

In the shelter of the trees just outside the convent, Eve quickly changed out of her archery garb and into her habit.

She figured her encounter with the royal guard who’d followed her to the alehouse might have been by chance. But now she’d seen two more. That could only mean the king himself was near.

Was he looking for her? Surely not. He had far more important things to do. And yet…

As she strode through the gates of the convent, Sister Eithne rushed across the cloister.

“Och, Sister Eve!” she said by way of greeting. “Have ye heard?”

“Heard what?”

“The news,” she said, eagerly wiggling her thick brows.

Eve didn’t have the patience for this. Not today. The only thing Sister Eithne liked to cook up more than her famous pottage was scandal. “News or rumor?”

“News.” She drew close to confide, “The abbess got it from Sister Mary, who got it from Friar John, who got it from the nuns at the convent near Glasgow, who heard it from an abbot—”

“Fine,” Eve said, biting back impatience. “The news?”

The cloister was empty except for the two of them. Nonetheless, Sister Eithne paused to survey the space, making sure no one was listening.

“’Tis the king,” she whispered.

Now she had Eve’s attention. “The king?”

Sister Eithne nodded. “He’s comin’.”

Eve’s heart pounded. Maybe he was looking for her. She glanced around the cloister. “Comin’ where? To the convent?”

“Nay, nay.” She waved away Eve’s confusion with a laugh. “Wouldn’t that be somethin’, the king comin’ here? Nay, he’s goin’ to Galloway.”

“Galloway.” If that was true, then the presence of the royal guards must have nothing to do with her. Perhaps they were scouting the area to ensure the king’s safe arrival in Galloway. “Why?”

“They say he’s goin’ to attack Laird Fergus.”

“Fergus? Why?”

“No one knows.”

That was troubling. Galloway wasn’t far from the convent. If war broke out…

Sister Eithne’s eyes twinkled as she elbowed Eve. “Maybe we’ll get to see the king.”

Eve had already met the king. She hadn’t been that impressed. But she pretended to share the sister’s excitement. “Wouldn’t that be somethin’?”

Sister Eithne giggled and then hurried the rest of the way across the cloisters toward the kitchens. It was almost time for supper. She no doubt had preparations to make.

So did Eve.

As long as the king wasn’t looking for her, this seemed like a blessing. Now she wouldn’t have to travel to Perth to get the king’s seal. Malcolm had come to her.

She’d simply dress like a noblewoman, find the royal encampment, and request an audience with the king.

Since she’d left her red velvet gown at the byre, she’d need to procure a new disguise.

Thankfully, she had enough coin left from her father to commission a fine gown in azure brocade from the village tailor, as well as purchasing a white silk wimple and veil, a simple girdle of silver chain, and a pair of tall wooden pattens to attach to her boots.

The gown wouldn’t be finished for several days. Meanwhile, she ventured forth doing charitable works as Sister Eve. All the while, she collected bits of information from alewives, crofters, beggars, and bakers, trying to determine the whereabouts of the king, but learning little.

She also performed one not so charitable act. She needed to make certain she looked very different from any other versions of Eve the king had seen. So when she happened to spy a fine white horse stabled at a roadside inn, she took the liberty of harvesting its tail hair to make a pair of braids.

After a fortnight, her gown was ready. But she still hadn’t located the king. Then, as fate would have it, on the way back from the village to the convent, she came up behind a pair of slow-traveling monks chattering on about the grand encampment they’d just passed in the forest.

It had to be the king’s.

When the monks noticed her, they stopped talking, which only enforced her belief it was indeed Malcolm’s retinue they’d seen in the woods.

There was no time to waste. She knew roughly where the king was now. But he could move his troops at any time.

Just after Prime the next morn, Sister Eve stole out the convent gates into the woods and transformed into Lady Hilda of Dunlop, the invented cousin of Lady Carenza.

She slipped into the azure brocade gown, girdling it with the silver chain.

She secured the horse tail braids to either side of her head, tucking them under the wimple and veil.

Because Lady Hilda despised mud, she buckled the protective wooden pattens onto the bottom of her boots, conveniently adding four inches to her height.

Then she powdered her face with a light layer of chalk and painted her lips with red-stained beeswax.

Lady Hilda, Eve decided, was the farthest thing from a nun.

She was a proud and sultry woman with distinct power over men.

Her noble bearing and strength, as well as her height and snowy tresses came from Viking blood on her mother’s side.

Most important, she had a smoky gaze and a throaty voice that could charm and cajole and convince even a king to do her bidding.

She checked to be sure she had the marriage document in her satchel.

Then she took a few cautious, teetering steps to get used to the pattens, which were a full two inches taller than any she’d worn before.

Making her way slowly along the path, lest she twist an ankle, she retraced her steps back to the spot where she’d heard the monks talking about the encampment.