“Beware how you flap that tongue of yours…I might be tempted to cut it out.”
“Such threats against a poor, wee, defenseless woman.”
That made him chuckle and he saw she tried not to smile, but stood instead and studied the hound, gripping him gently by the scruff and moving her face close to his dark, wet snout.
“Look at you, Fergus. You are so handsome. You look like a royal hound.”
“Do not lie to the animal. He still looks like an enormous hairy rat, but with no mud on his fur.”
She fluffed the dog’s big ears. “Ignore him, my sweet hound. I take most of his words with a grain of salt.” She surprised him, the phrases she used, and not for the first time.
“How do you know of Pliny and Pompey?”
“Alastair told me many stories. Of Aesop and Homer, Sophocles’Antigone and Oedipus, of the great tales of the Greek gods and goddesses. Those myths and poems were the heart of my childhood. My father’s,” she stopped and corrected herself. “Sir Hume’s father was distant kinsman to the duke of Normandy and was educated in his youth by a priest and destined for the church, until some change took place and he was sent to be fostered to a family, where the house bard carried songs and poems and tales for all who dined in the great hall. He passed those stories on to his son, and he to his sons, and Alastair himself was tutored for a short time.”
‘Twas as if a storm cloud had descended over them, so quickly did the lightness between them change. The mere mention of her brothers stole the joy away and some part of him was sorely disappointed.
But his sense returned swiftly, and told him he was being a fool. Better there be distance between them, even rancor, than his strange weak moods of the heart.
“We will leave at sunrise,” he told her.
She stood up, head down as she straightened her clinging wet gown, then opened the purse at her waist, looked inside and dropped in the comb. “Thank you for bathing Fergus, my lord. Come now,” she said to the hound and snapped her fingers. The dog was instantly at her side. “We shall leave you to your…" she paused and looked at him as if she were searching for something in him rather than something to say. “…your business.”
He watched her leave and stared at the empty spot where she had disappeared, unable to shake from his mind’s eye the image of her. He cursed himself for starting this, for washing her hound and bringing to mind his past, one that was long since over, and worse, his future, when he would have to walk away from her, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.
14
Torchlight in her hand, Glenna stood over the sleeping form of Baron Montrose sprawled out on his pallet, studying the slow, even rise and fall of his chest. She took a chance and poked him in the side with her foot.
Not a sound did he make.
“Montrose?” she whispered. Nothing. “Montrose,” she said louder. The man was sleeping like a drunkard. She picked up the half-full tankard and sniffed it. There was no telltale scent, nothing to warn that essence from the bloodbane leaves had laced the beer. Montrose had no warning of what was coming.
For reasons she could not explain, she was not proud of herself, and uncomfortable with her moment of conscience. Still she stood there longer knowing there was no time for regret.
But part of her still wished….
What good were wishes? Bah! She hurried around the room gathering her packs together. Soon after she'd left the stable earlier, she had done as Montrose asked and packed up what she had and changed clothes. Her gown was still wet when she rolled it up, but she sprinkled it with some fragrant dried lavender leaves from that morning, before tucking her green gown and the rest of her things tightly into her saddle roll.
Fergus was eagerly up on his haunches and watching her as she pulled her things into a corner before loading herself up with gear. Over one shoulder she slung the braided leather cord on Montrose’s fat waterskin, then shifted, adjusting it more comfortably next to the thick satchel strap that was already cutting into her slightly from the weight. She also stole his knife and a bag of silver marks.
A woolen cloth filled with food and tied tightly together would have to wait for the second load. She would not be as foolish as before and leave with nothing to eat or drink. Onc quick look at Montrose; he looked to be far, far from awakening. But she had no guarantees he would not wake up soon after she left. She was new to this drugging ploy and had been somewhat afraid to use too much and kill the man.
To Fergus she said, “Stay. Lie down. I shall be back.” He obeyed but rested his ragged snout on his paws. His eyes were big and wide and innocent, still watching her as she slipped quietly out of the room.
With the pack, her satchel, other goods slung about her shoulders and wrists, she moved down the abbey's narrow maze of dark hallways, being careful as she passed the dimly lit corridor that led down towards the front doors.
She looked around the corner.
At the end of the hallway, under wane of a flickering rushlight, Pater Bancho dozed in a niche by the large oak doors while slumped in a heavily carved wooden chair. She tiptoed quietly past the opening and moved swiftly down the halls to the back doors that led to the gardens.
Outside, but for the click of insects and the slight sound of her soft and careful footfalls, it was quiet, being well past the night’s last chiming of the bells. Soon she would be free and away from the threat of her birth, away from her fears, and away from Montrose.
An uneasy feeling ran over her arms like chilblains at the image of him when he awoke and she was not there. She couldalmost hear the bellow. And this time, she felt no urge to laugh. Somehow, besting him now held little satisfaction for her.
She began to run, heavily with her load, but run she must. She needed to run from his image, from the mere thought of him and the questions that came into her mind, far away from what she was feeling.
Above her, the twinkling of stars scattered as if thrown across the sky, and the thin splinter of a moon stood off toward the southwest where the edges of the horizon were still the late summer color of heather. She crossed the last distance of the garden, heading into the orchards where the fruit ladder was light and easy enough for her to carry to the south outskirts of the abbey garden and pull up after her whilst straddling the lime-washed wall, and then lean down on the other side, where she climbed outside the grounds and ran into a nearby copse of thick rowan trees.
