As they topped the next hill, he stopped short and put out a hand to Isabella. In front of the monastery gates was a line of people at least half mile long. Carts, people on foot, children, elderly, a vast array of citizens milled about.
Beside him she uttered an oath.
“What is going on down there?” he asked.
“They are in line for a blessing,” she explained. “Every morning the monks grant blessing upon the sick and those in need. I had forgotten. The line grows quite long at times.”
“I don’t suppose you know another way in,” he said grimly.
She shook her head. “It’s impossible to access the monastery except through the gates.”
“Then how do we get through the line without gaining notice? I assume you are a well known face here.”
A thoughtful expression pinched her face for several long seconds. “How is your Leaudorian accent?” she asked, turning to look at him.
“It’s passable,” he said mimicking her accent perfectly.
“Now all we need is a cloak or sheet,” she said, turning away from the direction of the monastery.
He fell in behind her as they headed toward several small cottages in the distance. “What is your plan?”
“Two years ago we had a terrible outbreak of influenza. People are still deathly afraid of the word here. I’ll wrap myself in a cloak and cough convincingly, and you can lead me to the front of the line, dropping the word influenza along the way. I assure you, they’ll part like someone cut them with shears.”
“I hope you’re right.”
At the second cottage, they found linens hung out to dry. She quickly pulled down a sheet and wrapped herself in it, completely hiding her face from view.
“Remember this cottage,” she told him. “I would repay them for what we have taken.”
“Let’s hurry,” he urged, taking her elbow and leading her to the main road.
“Your shirt,” she spoke up.
“What about it?” he asked looking down.
“It’s too fine to belong to a villager.” She rushed back to where the clothing hung on the line and quickly tore off a tunic. She thrust it at him. “Put it on.”
As he did her bidding, she retrieved her knife from her boot and slashed a hole in the right leg of his breeches. Then she reached down and grabbed a handful of dirt and rubbed it into the legs of his pants. Rising back up, she smeared dust onto his cheeks.
“There,” she said approvingly. “You look more like you just came from the fields.”
“Let’s go then.”
They hurried back to the road. As they grew closer to the gates, their pace slowed, and she assumed the stance of a person who was very ill. She leaned heavily on him and coughed as they approached the back of the line.
Several people stared suspiciously at her as they shuffled past them in line.
“Influenza,” Simon explained in low tones.
The looks of horror were instantaneous, and as Isabella had predicted, the line parted instantly giving them a clear path toward the front.
They were nearly there when the thunder of hooves sounded behind them. The ground shook beneath their feet. His grip tightened on her elbow as he turned to see what the ruckus was about.
“Make way for Jacques Montagne, future King of Leaudor,” a voice called.
Isabella stiffened beside him, and when she looked up, hatred burned brightly in her eyes.
“Not now,” he warned in a low voice.
