Arran realized hewas drumming his fingers on the table and forced himself to stop. Straightening in his chair, he plastered an attentive look on his face as Maurice, his castellan, droned on about the rising price of wheat.
The truth was, Arran had missed most of what Maurice had been saying. No matter how hard he tried to concentrate, the price of wheat just couldn’t hold his attention. His thoughts kept drifting back to Jenna. Where was she now? Had she and Mal reached the second anchor stone? Was she safe? Had they met any hazards on the way?
His thoughts had been going around and around like this ever since he’d sent Mal with Jenna this morning instead of accompanying her himself. It was the right decision; after all, hadn’t they agreed to pretend last night’s kiss never happened? If he was to do that he needed to keep his distance. But it didn’t mean he had to like it.
Somebody cleared their throat. Arran blinked, realizing he’d been staring at the table, and looked up.
Maurice was watching expectantly. The other two people at the table—his mother Rosaline and David, Arran’s steward, were also watching him.
Arran straightened in his chair. “Er… sorry… what?”
To his credit, Maurice didn’t let his annoyance show on his face, but Arran knew the old man well enough to recognize the slighttightening around his eyes that betrayed his frustration. This was not the first time this morning he’d had to repeat himself.
“I said, do I have yer permission to call a meeting with the grain merchants? If we look at increasing our exports of barley, and reducing our reliance on imported wheat, it should start driving the price down again.”
Arran waved his hand. “Aye, whatever ye think best.”
Maurice inclined his head. “My thanks, my laird. Now onto item three. It’s been brought to my attention that the repair to the wall in the eastern stable block is going to be more expensive than we thought due to the instability of the foundations. As it’s a later addition, the stone used was of a lower quality—”
Arran stopped listening. His gaze drifted to the window, beyond which a brilliant blue sky could be seen. Where were Jenna and Mal now? He began mentally measuring the distance and time their journey would take. If they’d met with no mishaps, they should be somewhere near—
“Arran!”
He looked around to find his mother glaring at him. “Have you listened to a single word Maurice just said?”
“What? Aye, of course! I—”
He was saved from further explanation by the door suddenly bursting open and banging loudly into the wall. Brother Merrick came hurrying in, his sandals slapping on the stone. He stopped abruptly when he realized Arran wasn’t alone.
“Oh! My apologies, my laird. I didnae realize ye were in a meeting, but ye said that I was to come to ye as soon as I found anything.” He waved a rolled scroll in Arran’s direction before his eyes slid to Rosaline, Maurice, and David who were all looking annoyed at the interruption. “I… um… I’ll come back later.”
“It’s all right, Brother,” Arran said, leaping on any excuse to get out of listening to more tedium about market prices or buildingrepairs. “What is it?”
Merrick licked his lips and glanced at the others again. “Um… that thing ye told me to look into? Well, I think I might have found something.”
Arran’s breath quickened. He pushed himself up from his seat. “Ye must excuse me,” he said to Maurice, David, and his mother. “I must see to this. Please, carry on.”
Rosaline frowned and opened her mouth to speak but before she could, Arran took Merrick by the shoulder and bundled him through the door, pulling it shut behind them. He took a deep breath. Already he could hear Maurice’s voice droning again from within.
“Yer timing is impeccable,” Arran said to Merrick with a wry smile. “Perhaps we should set up some kind of code system so ye can rescue me from such meetings in the future.”
Merrick looked puzzled. “My laird?”
Arran waved a hand. “Never mind. What have ye found?”
A flash of excitement passed over Merrick’s face. Stepping close, he unrolled the scroll and held it up for Arran to see. Densely packed script filled the page in a flourishing style that made it difficult to read.
Arran squinted. “Is that French?”
“Aye. It’s an ancient text that describes the siege of Chartres when Scandinavian invaders attacked the city. It describes how the attackers were fearless because they believed they were protected by one of their heathen gods. And it says they all wore the same ink design. Look, they’ve even drawn it.”
Arran took the scroll from Merrick and peered at it. Sure enough, towards the bottom of the scroll a crude symbol had been drawn: three interlocking spirals with a spiky rune above. The same symbol that had been inked into Ingold’s neck.
Arran looked at Merrick. “Does it say what the symbol means?”
The monk nodded triumphantly. “It does. It’s the symbol of the god Njord and anyone that bears the mark is one of his followers. Ofcourse, it’s all heathen nonsense, but what can we expect from barbarians who have yet to embrace the one true God?”
Njord thanks you for keeping his isles warm for him. The words Ingold had spoken to him at Tollman’s Gate.
