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Adam looked up at the clear, star-spattered sky from the wall walk of the Fergus keep. Two nights ago, the moon had been new, the relentless darkness broken only by the ritual bonfires of Samhain.

Now, on the night of All Souls, the fires were gone. The moon was a thin sliver, dim enough to lend cover for the royal army’s march on Galloway.

Stealth wasn’t necessary, of course. There would be no surprise attack. As far as King Malcolm was concerned, the arrival at night was to prevent the Fergus clan from collecting resources to withstand a siege. He expected Fergus to be unprepared and at his mercy.

Of course, Fergus had been warned. He was ready. Adam himself had helped the laird to prepare the castle for siege. The clan had already gathered enough livestock and food to last through the winter.

If things went Adam’s way, however, the siege would never actually happen. The conflict would be resolved before dawn.

Fergus didn’t completely trust Adam. He insisted Adam wait beside him atop the wall walk to watch for the king’s arrival. If the royal army didn’t come as he’d predicted, that would make it easier for Fergus to toss Adam from the parapets.

Fortunately, the king’s men did show up. And they had a trebuchet.

Thankfully, it was too dark for Fergus to notice their ranks included neither the Rivenloch warriors nor the English troops Adam had promised. But Fergus was satisfied his spy had told him the truth. King Malcolm had indeed arrived on All Souls Day.

That extra level of trust endeared Adam to Fergus. Once it appeared the king’s men had bedded down for the night and didn’t plan to attack, Adam suggested they go together to the great hall for an ale and to brief the clan on what would happen on the morrow.

An ale turned into three for Fergus.

Once he’d thoroughly wet his whistle and was sufficiently emboldened by drink, Fergus addressed the clan with his typical pomposity.

He boasted about his cleverness, bragging that he’d foiled the king, who thought he could catch Fergus with his trews down.

He declared he would be victorious against Malcolm and send him whimpering home with his tail betwixt his legs.

After his vainglorious speech, he sent the clanfolk to an early bed so they would be bright-eyed and battle-ready at dawn.

The laird, however, was not in the habit of going to bed without being deeper in his cups. He gathered four of his closest advisors to join him in drunken revelry. They worked up their courage for the siege by berating the king, calling him an infant, a maiden, a kiss-arse.

Adam quietly slipped into their ranks.

Seeing the trebuchet had given him an idea.

“M’laird,” he said, “ye know, we could do some real damage before the siege.”

“Damage? What sort o’ damage?”

“A wee group of us could steal out o’ the keep and into their camp. The moon is barely a crescent, and they’ve banked their fires. No one would see us.”

“A wee group of us?” one of the men barked.

“Are ye mad?” another said. “We’d get caught.”

“And killed,” chimed in a third.

Adam explained. “We won’t go near the pavilions. And we won’t attack anyone. But we could set their trebuchet afire.”

Their brows shot up at that idea. Then the men began chortling with glee.

“Aye!” Fergus shouted, clapping Adam on the back. “Brilliant.”

“Who’s with me then?” Adam asked.

The enthused men were less enthusiastic about pulling off the deed themselves.

“Come on, lads,” Fergus urged. “’Twill be as easy as reivin’ coos.”

They still balked, muttering excuses.

Fergus snorted. “Hell. I’ll go myself if ye’re a bunch o’ milksops.”

“Nay, m’laird.”

“’Tis too risky.”

“Don’t be a halfwit,” one man said, taking hold of Fergus’s arm. “Ye can’t go, m’laird.”

“Who are ye callin’ a halfwit?” Fergus roared, pulling his arm away. “I can and I will.”

“I’ll go,” Adam volunteered. “And I’ll keep the laird safe.”

His men were drunk, but not that drunk. They understood the risk of venturing into enemy territory, where they were outnumbered. They also weren’t about to leave their laird in the hands of a mercenary they barely knew.

Two of them reluctantly agreed to go. The other two said they’d watch from the wall walk with bows and arrows at the ready.

Adam wasn’t worried about the two atop the wall walk. It was too dark for archery, even if they hadn’t been too drunk to aim.

He was most concerned about the two guards who’d agreed to accompany him. They were the least drunk of the four. They would be the hardest to manage.

Fortunately, Adam was a Rivenloch by birth. Though he’d chosen a different path from his kin, he’d been raised a warrior. He knew how to handle guards.

It was full dark when the four agitators slipped out of the keep. They couldn’t risk bringing a lit brand to start the fire. So the two guards were armed with flint, steel, and straw.

They were also armed with swords.

Adam carried a dagger. Inside his hauberk he’d tucked a large square of white linen.

A quarter of the way toward the king’s camp, Adam made his move with fluid stealth.

In one graceful movement, he unsheathed his dagger and set it at Fergus’s throat while with his other hand, he drew Fergus’s sword and tossed it away. He turned to the two guards before Fergus even had a chance to gasp in surprise.

The guards instinctively drew their swords.

Adam shook his head. They could see he had Fergus at his mercy. One wee slip of the dagger, and the laird’s life would end.

“Traitor,” one of the guards bit out. “We should ne’er have trusted ye.”

The other quietly fumed.

“Toss your weapons away,” Adam whispered.

They only tightened their grips.

“Toss them away,” he repeated with deadly calm, “or I’ll slay your laird.”

Fergus tensed. “Drop your weapons,” he begged in a voice strangled by fear. “Do it.”

They reluctantly complied.

“Now return to the keep,” Adam murmured, “unless you want to be slaughtered by the royal guard.”

They hesitated.

“Go,” Fergus said through clenched teeth.

Adam watched them leave. When he was confident they wouldn’t return, he continued toward the king’s encampment with his hostage.

“He’ll kill me, ye know,” Fergus muttered.

Adam told him the truth. “Ye’re too valuable to kill.”

“I should have known ye were a traitor.”

He probably should have at least suspected it. Hiring mercenaries was risky.

As they drew closer, Fergus tried to bargain. “What is it ye want? Coin? Land? A title?”

“Peace,” Adam told him. “I want peace.”

He stopped near the first pavilion. Reaching into his hauberk with his free hand, he withdrew the linen square and waved it high.

Then he called out, “Your Grace, Laird Fergus of Galloway wishes to surrender.”

Fergus sputtered at that, but he dared do no more, not with a blade at his throat.

Royal guards immediately emerged from the pavilions. The king was summoned from bed to greet his adversary.

Fergus denied having surrendered. He refused to swear loyalty to Malcolm. With false bravado, he said his whole clan would rather burn inside the keep than bow before a maiden king.

Fortunately, Malcolm took the insult in stride. He could see Fergus was in his cups. He was magnanimous in return. He told Fergus none of his clansmen would be harmed, and his keep would remain intact.

Adam suspected the royal army was less than happy about that. They probably wished to fire their new trebuchet at least once.

In the end, the king was pleased. He’d won a bloodless battle. Behaved chivalrously. Lost no men. And the thorn in his side, Fergus of Galloway, had been extracted.

Indeed, Malcolm was so grateful for Adam’s help that the next morn he offered him a purse of silver for his trouble.

Adam’s first instinct was to refuse. He didn’t like the idea of blood money.

But then he remembered the alewife, her husband, their alehouse, and how distraught Eve had been over the injustice. So he accepted the coin and pledged to seek out the impoverished couple. They would get the recompense they deserved.

He only wished he could tell Eve. But there was no way to determine where she’d gone. And by now, the trail was cold.

Unless…

He marched to the pavilion of the king’s physician and whipped open the flap. The physician was there, bandaging a soldier’s hand. Glancing up and seeing Adam’s glare, he finished up and sent the man on his way.

“You,” Adam said. “What do you know about the hostage?”

The physician washed his hands in a basin of water. “The nun?”

“Aye.”

The physician eyed Adam as if he wondered whether he could trust him. Then he murmured, “I don’t think she was a spy.”

“Is that so?”

“Aye. I think she was a nun.”

Adam didn’t give his opinion much credit. “Spies are skilled at mimicry. She was very good.”

“What she did was beyond mimicry.”

“What do you mean?”

“She saved a man’s life.”

Adam frowned. “Through…prayer?” In his experience, it was rare for a man of science to put much faith in miracles.

“Nay. She stitched up a knife wound. A wound I was goin’ to cauterize. I’ve ne’er seen such skill, such beautiful work.”

Adam was struck speechless. Surely that wasn’t true. He’d seen Eve at the alehouse. She’d nearly fainted at the sight of blood.

The physician shook his head in wonder. “She knew what herbs to use. And how to wrap bandages. She may not be a physician, but she’s had a lot o’ practice, healin’. I believe she is a nun.”

“What difference does it make now?”

“Because I don’t think ye want a woman o’ God to come to harm…from either side.”

That was true.

Adam stated what he now suspected. “You know where she’s gone.”

The physician nodded. “I think she’s fled back to her convent.”

If the physician had known Eve like Adam did, he’d never dream she belonged to a convent.

Still, the man had a point. It made sense Eve would find a safe place to go. The convent she’d mentioned before, where she had friends among the sisters, was near Mauchline. He’d told her the king wouldn’t attack nuns. It seemed a convenient and likely place of refuge.