“The p-priest…he found the lady.”
Janet fought with everything she had, but the soldier seemed to barely notice as he dragged her through the forest. The road was closer than she’d realized. After about fifty yards, they broke out of the trees and he pushed her forward with enough force to put her on her knees. She gazed up and found herself surrounded by men on horseback. In addition to the priest and the oaf who’d caught her before, she counted a half-dozen soldiers.
But none looked more dangerous than the priest. There was nothing churchly about the menacing gaze fixed on her. “Did you have a nice run, my dear?”
Janet felt a flash of panic but forced it aside. She had to think. She wasn’t going to give up without a fight. A handful of different explanations filtered through her mind, but she didn’t have time to weigh them all. She went with the first thing that came to mind: pretending that she hadn’t known who he was. “You are a priest?” she said, getting to her feet. “Thank goodness! I thought you were with this man who was accosting me.” She motioned to the oaf.
The priest shook his head with a tsking sound. “You can forget the playacting, my dear. I know who you are. Your friend the monk was most forthcoming—with some persuasion, of course.” The small smile sent shivers racing up and down her spine.Poor Thom. “I know of your transformation from the Italian nun to the novice Eleanor. I suspected you of helping the usurper king to pass messages, but imagine my surprise and pleasure when you led us right to his secret army. I am most interested in learning the names of the men you were traveling with.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” she persisted. “You must have me confused with someone else.”
His eyes narrowed. The soldiers moved their horses in tighter around her, and she had to fight the overwhelming urge not to try to dart between them and run. The instinct to flee at the danger closing in was primal.
“Do you think removing a veil and putting on a pretty dress will fool me?” the priest demanded. “It took me a moment when I saw you dancing, but I don’t forget a face. Especially one as pretty as yours. It’s a shame. So much beauty, going to waste.”
Janet didn’t like the sound of that. She didn’t know what to say. Her tongue seemed tangled in her mouth. He wasn’t the knight or the squire, and she didn’t have the merchant and his wife to help her. She didn’t haveanyoneto help her. God, what she wouldn’t do for Ewen and his friends right now.
All she had was her wits—which seemed to be failing her right now—and her dagger. She would have to wait for the right time to attempt to get away, which, with all these men surrounding her, clearly wasn’t right now.
She tried her luck with the soldiers. “It seems there is some misunderstanding,” she said to one of them. “Perhaps it would be best if we returned to town—”
The priest didn’t let her finish. “There is no misunderstanding. What were you doing with the woman in the alley? And who is she?”
“Woman?” Janet repeated, as if confused. “Oh, you mean the beggar woman?”
“Do you usually embrace beggar women?” the priest asked, a shrewd glint in his eyes.
Janet cursed her mistake; she’d forgotten about the hug. “I was surprised myself, Father. But she was most grateful for the coin I gave her.”
“I do not think so, Genna or Eleanor or whatever name you are going by now. But it isn’t your identity that concerns me.” Obviously the dead friar hadn’t been privy to her real name, or she suspected the priest would be very interested. “We’ve suspected that someone has been leaking information from the castle, and you are going to tell us who that is. But first things first.” Janet didn’t like the small smile on his face when he turned to the soldier who’d captured her. “Search her.”
His words sent a chill racing down her spine. She knew it wouldn’t take them long to find the parchment in the purse at her waist. And if they did…
She didn’t want to think about it. It wasn’t just her life at stake, but also her informant’s, the king’s, and the future of Scotland itself. If Bruce were captured now, the cause would be lost. Who else would be brave enough to stand up to the most powerful kingdom in Christendom? King Edward would put another puppet on the throne or take it for himself.
She couldn’t let them find it; she had to get away.
The time for talk had ended. She reached for her dagger, but she wasn’t quick enough. The soldier grabbed her arms in his crushing hold and spun her around to face him.
“Let go of me!” She managed to get one of her hands free and lashed at his face. One of her nails caught his cheek, but it only made him angrier.
In the torchlight she got her first look at him, and she almost wished for darkness. He wasn’t exceptionally tall like the man who’d caught her in the alley, but what he lacked in height he made up for in breadth and bulk. He was wide as an oak, thick and strong. Beneath the edge of his helm, all she could see was a squashed-in, crooked nose that looked like it had healed in the same position in which it had been punched, a thick, dark beard that covered the bottom half of his face and a good portion of his neck as well, and piercing dark eyes that were staring at her with rage.
“Bitch!” He caught her wrist in his hand and squeezed so tightly, she thought he meant to snap the bone. He let go of it long enough to slam his fist into her jaw.
Her head snapped back, and she cried out in pain and the shock of being struck. He hit her again, this time backhanding her against the cheek. Blood poured down her face as tears sprang to her eyes. But still she fought back. She lashed out wildly—instinctively—but he caught her blows with ease. He hit her again and again, beating her into submission. Her jaw…her cheek…the side of her ribs. Her head swam; the pain was overwhelming. It took everything she had just to stay on her feet.
“That’s enough,” one of the other soldiers said, distaste evident in his voice. Apparently not all the soldiers were brutes who enjoyed beating women. “Let’s see if she has something first.”
The brutish soldier spun her around again, holding both her wrists in one vise-like hand, while the other pawed roughly at her body with obviously relish.
“The purse,” the priest said impatiently. “Give me the purse.”
She cried out and made one last frantic effort to protect the missive, but he snapped the leather girdle from her waist and tossed it to the priest.
Through tear- and blood-streaked vision, she watched as the priest removed the parchment from the leather pouch. A gleam of victory appeared in his gaze as one of the men held a torch above his head, and he read it.
He folded the damning evidence back up and slid it into his vestments. “I see I was right about you and the lady. I should think with this, Lord de Beaumont should be able to pinpoint the source of his leak. Although that won’t be half as much fun as it would be for Randolph here to retrieve the information from you. It’s a particular talent of his.”
