“True enough,” Alexander said. “But we can hunt down Richard’s bastard son and kill him. With the boy out of the way, neither the Holy Father nor William the Lion, or any other enemies, will have a legitimate issue to place upon the throne.”
The fact that Alexander knew about Richard’s bastard son drew some reaction from Alasdair, however weak. His dark eyes flickered as he realized that, indeed, de Sherrington knew the extent of their plans. Whoever the mole was inside of St. Blitha had done a thorough job, which was rather disappointing.
“Ye’ll never find the lad,” he finally said. “The Holy Father sent him away. I dinna even know where he is.”
Alexander waved him off. “It is of little matter,” he said. “If enough money is presented, I am sure whoever guards the boy will happily turn him over to us. No man is more loyal to the Holy Father than he is to his own purse.”
Alasdair conceded the point. “Money is the most persuasive language in the world,” he agreed. “I wish ye luck,Sassenach. Ye’ll need it.”
Alexander dipped his head as if thanking the man. “Your confidence in me is overwhelming,” he said. “But have no fear; in the end, we shall do what needs to be done, for the good of England.”
Alasdair’s dark eyes glittered. “Would ye care tae wager on that, lad?”
Alexander couldn’t help the grin on his lips. “I may keep you alive just long enough to see who would win that wager.”
“If I win, then ye’ll set me free. If I lose, ye can slit my throat.”
“I do not need anything as frivolous as a wager to do that.”
“Then ye still intend tae kill me, in any case?”
“That is what I’ve been paid to do. And I am loyal to my own purse.”
Alasdair laughed softly, thinking of the words on the value of money presented only moments earlier. “If I pay ye more, will ye spare me?”
Alexander appeared intrigued by the offer. “Can you?”
“My king can.”
Alexander rather liked that. It was the mercenary in him. He had no great loyalty to Abramo or the money the man had paid him, but if he could make even more money by sparking Alasdair’s life, he would consider it.
“Then mayhap I shall send word to William the Lion and ask him what your life is worth to him,” he said. “Meanwhile, you will be my guest for a time. You may as well get comfortable. You are going to be here a while.”
Alasdair simply nodded, torn between showing de Sherrington just how clever he was and making the man think he had surrendered to his fate. He didn’t want to tip off the big knight with suggestions of a future escape, but from the moment he’d awoken in this unfamiliar chamber, that was exactly what he’d been thinking. As he sat there, rubbing at his head again and waiting for de Sherrington to say something more, another muscular knight came to the doorway.
“Max has more information,” the warrior muttered to de Sherrington, who turned to look at him. “The Marshal wants you down in the hall to hear it.”
Alexander grunted in acknowledgment. “Very well,” he responded, returning his attention to Alasdair. “I’ll send some food to you, ye madman. Behave yourself while I am gone.”
He saidye madmanwith a perfect Scots accent, using a Scottish insult for a drunkard. But Alasdair waved him off.
“Nay,” he said, falling back down on the bed. “No food now. Let me sleep, lad. That’s what I need most. I’ll see yer ugly face on the morrow.”
“You can stake your life on it.”
Alasdair put an arm over his eyes, indicating the great pain in his head, as de Sherrington was pulled away by the other knight and the door was closed behind him. The sound of the bolt being thrown was unmistakable.
The moment the door was shut, however, Alasdair sat up and rushed to the panel with movements that suggested he was much more sober, and far less hungover, than he had let on. Putting his ear to the door, he listened carefully for any sound that de Sherrington might be returning. When he was certain the coast was clear and the man wasn’t about to make a return, he bolted straight to the window.
It was a square window with shutters that Alasdair easily unlocked and threw open. Night had fallen, so all he could see below were houses, lit from the inside by weak fires, and a vacant alley below. There were no walls around the fortified manor because the first floor had no windows, so the alley ran right up to the house itself. There was a gutter down there that he could smell more than he could see it and, better still, no activity.
But it was a good drop from where he was, which is why they hadn’t barred the windows on him. Only an insane man would leap from the window with that kind of drop to the ground below, but Alasdair had never been accused of being sane. His mission to London had been discovered, and there was a mole in St. Blitha, and now the nobles of England knew that the Holy Father had ordered the nuns of St. Blitha to assassinate the king.
Like any good spy, Alasdair wasn’t going to give up easily. He wasn’t going to sit back and nurse an aching head while the entire objective of him being in England was at stake. The Holy Father himself had entrusted this mission to him and even though he hadn’t been the one ordered to eliminate the king, it would still be on his shoulders if the nuns failed.
He had to get word to them.
He had to get out of there.
