Page 67 of The Falcon Laird

Christian frowned. “It was a dangerous thing you did.”

Will lifted his chin. “We were not afraid.”

“I know,” she said gently. “But Rob is younger than you. He needs your guidance. And you might have been hurt.”

Robbie’s lip wobbled. “You think us beggary wretches.”

Christian rumpled Robbie’s brown hair. “Do not let your father hear you say that. Those are English soldier’s words Will has taught you. And I do not think you are wretches,” she said, “only brave lads who should have asked an adult for help.”

“Adults would not have listened,” Robbie said.

“I would, and I would have helped you myself,” she said. “Sometimes dreams must be followed.”

“What dream? What was all the shouting in here?” Gavin asked. Christian, still on her knees, looked up. Gavin stepped into the bakery chamber, a deep scowl on his face.

“Patrick fell in the well,” she said.

“Jesu!” Gavin leaned down and helped Fergus lift the boy out. While Fergus climbed out of the well, Gavin took off his cloak and cocooned Patrick inside its folds. Then Fergus and Gavin questioned the boys in somber tones.

“If that treasure was in the well, lads,” Fergus said, “we would have found it when we were down there. It was foolish.”

“And dangerous,” Gavin said.

“But we werena feared,” Robbie said. Beside him, Patrick nodded, teeth chattering.

“Treasure?” Hastings strode into the room with Ormesby behind him. “You found the gold in that well there?”

“You cannot have it, Sassenach!” Robbie yelled. Christian gasped and laid a hand on his shoulder to silence him.

“Scottish wildness begins in infancy,” Ormesby pronounced.

“You’ll have a whipping for that, boy,” Hastings barked, scowling down at Robbie.

“By the saints,” Fergus said, “he’s but a bairn—”

“I’ll whip them all and be done with it, if they know aught about gold that rightfully belongs to King Edward,” Hastings said. “Boys should be whipped often by their elders.”

Stepping close to the taller man, Fergus threw his shoulders wide and thrust out his broad chest. “You’ll touch none o’ my lads,” he growled, “unless you’d relish a dirk in your belly.”

“You call yourself a priest, man?” Ormesby asked in a scoffing tone. “You’re as savage as your parishioners. You can be hanged for coming at me in such a way.”

“Did I say it would be my dirk?” Fergus cocked a brow. “And who are you?”

“Philip Ormesby, treasurer of Scotland.”

“Ah, treasurer. We Scots call you the treacherer.” Fergus smiled. Ormesby sniffed.

“Ormesby will collect enough taxes to shrivel your damned Scottish tongues,” Hastings snapped.

“Hold,” Gavin cut in sharply. “The escort is ready.”

“Come ahead, Philip,” Hastings said. “Faulkener, a word. Outside.”

“One moment.” Gavin turned to Fergus as the others left the chamber. “God’s very bones, man, would you start a skirmish between Scots and English here? Are you a rebel, or a priest as well? It is imperative we watch our tempers around those fellows.” He glanced at Christian while he spoke.

“Aye, true,” Fergus admitted. “I tell my lads that. I will do so myself.”

Gavin nodded. “One question I meant to ask—in the well the other day, I noticed some broken and loose stones. We should ask the mason to take a look at it. He is a good fellow. All the locals are. I owe you for that favor.”