He cornered one of the younger monks in the library.“The physician in the infirmary.Do you know who he is?”
“The physician?Peris.”
“Where does he come from, do you know?”
“I don’t.He only comes when someone’s about to…” The monk gulped, as if saying the words aloud might make it so.
“Whowouldknow?”
“The abbot?”
Hew was fairly certain the abbot was seeing to the dying man as well, since all of the senior monks seemed to be gathering at the infirmary.
He supposed he’d just have to wait until the man expired.
Hours passed.He was served a silent dinner of thin mutton pottage.The sun sank in a gloomy sky.The cloud-ringed moon emerged.Still no one returned.
He retired to his cell and stared at the plaster ceiling, dimly illuminated by the filtered moonlight.
He was glad he was a warrior.Warriors didn’t suffer through lingering death watches or questionable cures.They went out in a blaze of glory.
If Hew had his way, he would never have need of a physician.
Maybe to mend his wounded heart, he corrected.That was something that wouldn’t heal on its own.
He drifted off, dreaming of all the women he’d loved and lost.
Carenza rubbed her aching eyes and scooted her stool closer to the hearth.It was difficult to stitch late at night by firelight.But she didn’t have a choice.She couldn’t exactly piece together a disguise by daylight in front of witnesses.
Fortunately, no one would be inspecting her handiwork.It was truly rushed and haphazard.Her stitches were crooked and uneven, and she didn’t bother to finish any of the seams.
But it only had to last one night.Afterwards, she’d rip it apart into unrecognizable rags.
Besides, its rustic quality made it a better disguise.No one would suspect the stout beggar hobbling along the hill in tatters was in truth the laird’s daughter.
She tied one final knot in the garment and snipped the thread with scissors.Then she shook out the cloth and stood to hold it up to her waist.
A few nights hence, she’d be in a hurry to dress.She needed to try everything on before then.
She’d never worn men’s trews before.They were surprisingly comfortable.The waist was a bit baggy.So she dug through her chest to find a leather belt to hold them up.
Over her leine, she slipped the voluminous patchwork shirt she’d sewn.The garment, padded in the shoulders and at the front to add bulk, fell to her knees.
She pulled up the thick woolen socks she’d borrowed from her father’s winter chest.
Then she let out a jagged breath.If her da could see her now, he would lock her in her room and throw away the key.
She’d procured a pair of sturdy boots from the stable lad.She’d told him she meant to have them repaired and cleaned for him.Which she would.After she used them to tramp through the muddy hills.
But when she picked up the left boot, it was occupied.
“Oh!”she cried.“Blancmange, what are ye doin’ in there?”
She gently dumped the wee hedgepig out of the boot onto the floor.
“Ye can’t make a nest in that.”
Undaunted, Blancmange waddled toward the second boot.
