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T hirty-five

M ORE.”

The old cook continued slicing meat from the roast, piling it upon the table as Torquil instructed. His stomach growled in ravenous anticipation.

“And the cheese,” he directed. “That’s no enough.”

Not nearly enough. With a desire for food he hadn’t felt for years, he snagged a bite from the pile and slipped it into his mouth.

Everything tasted so wonderful. When had he stopped enjoying this simple pleasure?

“It’s good to see yer appetite returned, Master Torquil.” The old cook flashed a ragged grin. “I’ve a special bit of sweet prepared and set back for later today. Would you like to try some?”

He nodded and gestured for her to bring it, his mouth too filled with the creamy cheese to speak. With each bite he felt more and more himself, his thoughts less chaotic and fragmented.

“Here you go.” The cook placed a sticky bun in front of him. “I think you’ll find it quite enjoyable. Everyone who’s tasted it has agreed.”

As if the vague disquiet hanging over his shoulder had just grown by half, Torquil stopped chewing. Something the old woman just said had annoyed the worry, like someone poking a sharp stick at a trapped animal.

“What did you say?”

“Only that I hope you’ll enjoy it.” She wiped her hands nervously down her apron.

“No. What exact words did you say? Repeat them for me.”

“I . . . I think you’ll find it to yer liking,” she stumbled, obviously trying to remember. “Everyone what’s had a taste has agreed that I’ve done a fine job on it.”

Not the exact words, but close enough.

“Leave me,” he ordered, and she ran from the kitchen.

“ ‘Agreed,’ ” he muttered aloud. “Why does that word rankle at my memory?”

Agreed, agreed, agreed . . . Surely he’d heard it only a short time ago. A commonly used word. Anyone could have said it. . . .

The minstrel had used the word. He could hear the man’s voice in his memory.

The Tinklers agreed to assist in her escape.

But with whom did they agree? Who at Tordenet would care what happened to the stranger who had attempted his murder?

He rose from the bench to pace, his thoughts swirling.

If not the minstrel himself, there was only one other who would have an interest in saving the woman. The one who had interceded to save her the night she’d come at him with a knife.

Halldor O’Donar.

Of course! It was the only option that made sense. And if O’Donar had plotted against him, he could hardly be the champion Christiana had foretold.

At last, no matter how his sister might try to parse her words when she answered his questions, he had the answer for which he’d waited so long. Chase Noble was the champion who would guide him into the future, riding at his side, leading the way to his victories.

Laughter rose in his throat, bursting forth until his sides were aching and his throat parched.

“Ale,” he managed to croak, motioning to the cook when her face appeared through the open door.

She scurried forward, her hand shaking as she filled the tankard.

“Perhaps, dear lady, I should decree that everyone should eat in the kitchen before meals are served, rather than wait for them in the great hall.” He tried for a gracious smile, feeling magnanimous in his joy.

“The food tastes so much better served here. Or perhaps it’s only that my hunger does not wait for regular meal service. ”

“Seems to be a popular problem of late, my lord.”

“Indeed? What makes you say that? Has someone else dined in the kitchens recently?”

Again she backed away, as if she feared his wrath at her candor.

“One of the new men wanted to. Noble, I believe Ulfr called him. Though he dinna make it all the way to the kitchen. I found him at the bottom of the big staircase, in the entry hall before preparations for the morning meal were hardly even begun. But then Ulfr showed up as well, telling him he’d best be worrying about his arse, no his empty belly.

” Her eyes rounded and she hurried to add, “Begging yer pardon for my language, my good laird.”

What would have brought Noble into the entry hall so early in the morning? If he’d wanted food, why not enter through the kitchen? Again the small animal of disquiet living on his shoulder flapped its wings. “When was this?”

“Yesterday, before the men left, sir.”

“Early yesterday,” he murmured, the wings flapping in his ears as if an entire flock of birds beat about his head. “Was Ulfr alone when you saw him?”

She shuffled a few steps farther away, darting her eyes to the floor. “There might have been someone with him,” she answered hesitantly. “Though I canna say with any accuracy who it could have been wrapped in that heavy cloak.”

He knew exactly who Ulfr had removed from his tower at yesterday’s dawn. Dawn—not a time for any of his soldiers to make their way down his stairs.

Not unless they had spent the night in the upper chambers. Chambers housing no one except on that particular night when Christiana had chosen to spend the night there.

“You say you found Noble at the base of the stairs. Could he have been coming down those stairs, do you suppose?”

“Now that you mention it, he was stepping off the bottom stair when I first called out to him.”

The flapping of wings stilled, and a heavy black haze of anger colored the remaining dregs of suspicion and doubt.

Torquil rose to his feet, knocking over the bench upon which he had sat, and in long, determined strides he made his way from the kitchen through the great hall.

Each conversation he’d had with Christiana, each interaction, played over and over in his mind, from her first foray at encouraging him to seek out new men to swell his ranks.

It was essential that he do so, she had informed him, because her Vision had shown her that there would be one among them who would be essential to the outcome of his efforts.

His new champion, she had confirmed. But now that he recalled her exact words, she had never claimed the champion would be his, any more than she had claimed that the outcome would be to his liking rather than to her own.

She had deceived him. From the moment she had returned from the glen after Malcolm’s escape, right up until yesterday morning when she greeted his waking touch with her moan of pleasure—until she had opened her eyes and recognized it was he standing over her bed.

He, Torquil of Katanes—not some vagabond mercenary who sold his skills to the highest bidder.

Even the runes she wore hanging from her neck made sense now. One for her, and one for her warrior lover.

She had fooled him with her clever use of words. Lured him into unknowingly acting on her behalf, in a vain attempt to defeat him.

He paused in his rampage across the courtyard for the moment it took to send his command winging through the ether to Ulfr and Artur. They would deal with Noble and his brother, even as he dealt with Christiana.

His sister would pay dearly for her disloyalty. They all would.