Laird of Smoke, page 23
The thought left a sour taste in his mouth. While the Rivenlochs had always been loyal to the king, they had never condoned unchivalrous warfare. And Adam knew they wouldn’t condone it now.
He was torn.
He couldn’t live with himself if those villages had been destroyed because of information he’d shared with Malcolm.
And yet he couldn’t commit treason against the Crown by withholding information from the king that might get his troops killed.
He needed to talk to Malcolm, face to face. Get him to disclose his next plan of attack. And report back to Fergus with an early alert.
With forewarning, at least someone would be there for defense. There might be a brief skirmish, but fewer casualties, and there would time to evacuate innocents.
Adam hoped the two sides could ultimately settle things without a battle. The Rivenloch clan was always happy to defend Scotland against foreign invaders. But they hated to get involved in clan wars.
Unfortunately, it sounded as if Fergus’s commanders had had no success in curbing their laird’s appetite for land.
Perhaps Adam could convince the king it was a mistake to make an enemy of England, particularly in light of his recent friendship with King Henry. And then he might be able to persuade Fergus to relinquish the idea of expanding his holdings and instead be grateful for the full return of his ancestral clan lands.
The negotiation would be a complex undertaking. But Adam was sure he was the best Rivenloch for the task.
In the shelter of the trees just outside the convent, Eve quickly changed out of her archery garb and into her habit.
She figured her encounter with the royal guard who’d followed her to the alehouse might have been by chance. But now she’d seen two more. That could only mean the king himself was near.
Was he looking for her? Surely not. He had far more important things to do. And yet…
As she strode through the gates of the convent, Sister Eithne rushed across the cloister.
“Och, Sister Eve!” she said by way of greeting. “Have ye heard?”
“Heard what?”
“The news,” she said, eagerly wiggling her thick brows.
Eve didn’t have the patience for this. Not today. The only thing Sister Eithne liked to cook up more than her famous pottage was scandal. “News or rumor?”
“News.” She drew close to confide, “The abbess got it from Sister Mary, who got it from Friar John, who got it from the nuns at the convent near Glasgow, who heard it from an abbot—”
“Fine,” Eve said, biting back impatience. “The news?”
The cloister was empty except for the two of them. Nonetheless, Sister Eithne paused to survey the space, making sure no one was listening.
“’Tis the king,” she whispered.
Now she had Eve’s attention. “The king?”
Sister Eithne nodded. “He’s comin’.”
Eve’s heart pounded. Maybe he was looking for her. She glanced around the cloister. “Comin’ where? To the convent?”
“Nay, nay.” She waved away Eve’s confusion with a laugh. “Wouldn’t that be somethin’, the king comin’ here? Nay, he’s goin’ to Galloway.”
“Galloway.” If that was true, then the presence of the royal guards must have nothing to do with her. Perhaps they were scouting the area to ensure the king’s safe arrival in Galloway. “Why?”
“They say he’s goin’ to attack Laird Fergus.”
“Fergus? Why?”
“No one knows.”
That was troubling. Galloway wasn’t far from the convent. If war broke out…
Sister Eithne’s eyes twinkled as she elbowed Eve. “Maybe we’ll get to see the king.”
Eve had already met the king. She hadn’t been that impressed. But she pretended to share the sister’s excitement. “Wouldn’t that be somethin’?”
Sister Eithne giggled and then hurried the rest of the way across the cloisters toward the kitchens. It was almost time for supper. She no doubt had preparations to make.
So did Eve.
As long as the king wasn’t looking for her, this seemed like a blessing. Now she wouldn’t have to travel to Perth to get the king’s seal. Malcolm had come to her.
She’d simply dress like a noblewoman, find the royal encampment, and request an audience with the king.
Since she’d left her red velvet gown at the byre, she’d need to procure a new disguise. Thankfully, she had enough coin left from her father to commission a fine gown in azure brocade from the village tailor, as well as purchasing a white silk wimple and veil, a simple girdle of silver chain, and a pair of tall wooden pattens to attach to her boots.
The gown wouldn’t be finished for several days. Meanwhile, she ventured forth doing charitable works as Sister Eve. All the while, she collected bits of information from alewives, crofters, beggars, and bakers, trying to determine the whereabouts of the king, but learning little.
She also performed one not so charitable act. She needed to make certain she looked very different from any other versions of Eve the king had seen. So when she happened to spy a fine white horse stabled at a roadside inn, she took the liberty of harvesting its tail hair to make a pair of braids.
After a fortnight, her gown was ready. But she still hadn’t located the king. Then, as fate would have it, on the way back from the village to the convent, she came up behind a pair of slow-traveling monks chattering on about the grand encampment they’d just passed in the forest.
It had to be the king’s.
When the monks noticed her, they stopped talking, which only enforced her belief it was indeed Malcolm’s retinue they’d seen in the woods.
There was no time to waste. She knew roughly where the king was now. But he could move his troops at any time.
Just after Prime the next morn, Sister Eve stole out the convent gates into the woods and transformed into Lady Hilda of Dunlop, the invented cousin of Lady Carenza. She slipped into the azure brocade gown, girdling it with the silver chain. She secured the horse tail braids to either side of her head, tucking them under the wimple and veil. Because Lady Hilda despised mud, she buckled the protective wooden pattens onto the bottom of her boots, conveniently adding four inches to her height. Then she powdered her face with a light layer of chalk and painted her lips with red-stained beeswax.
Lady Hilda, Eve decided, was the farthest thing from a nun. She was a proud and sultry woman with distinct power over men. Her noble bearing and strength, as well as her height and snowy tresses came from Viking blood on her mother’s side. Most important, she had a smoky gaze and a throaty voice that could charm and cajole and convince even a king to do her bidding.
She checked to be sure she had the marriage document in her satchel. Then she took a few cautious, teetering steps to get used to the pattens, which were a full two inches taller than any she’d worn before. Making her way slowly along the path, lest she twist an ankle, she retraced her steps back to the spot where she’d heard the monks talking about the encampment.
The monks must have taken a smaller side path that diverted from the road into the woods. She watched for that branching trail.
The first side trail dead ended at a large boulder fifty yards in. The second trail dwindled to nothing after a few turns. But the third trail appeared to be well traveled, and after about a half-mile, Eve could glimpse red-and-gold-striped pavilions through the trees.
The camp was already awake. The air was filled with the clinking of pots, the stomp of boots, the low mumbles of men, and the acrid scent of smoke.
She’d come early to catch the king when he was least occupied and most vulnerable. If she approached him before he was fully awake, she’d be more likely to get his cooperation.
“Who are ye?” came a sudden gruff voice behind her.
Alarmed, Eve whipped around.
But Lady Hilda wouldn’t be alarmed. So Eve drew herself up to her full height—plus four inches—and looked the guardsman in the eye with a sultry smile.
“Lady Hilda of Dunlop, here to see the king.” Then she drew her gaze slowly down the front of the man’s tabard, as if sizing him up for a tryst. “Who are ye?”
Her frank appraisal rattled the guard. “I…I’m M-…M-…Martin. Martin o’—”
“Mmm, Martin,” she purred. “What a magnificent name.”
“M’lady?”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “Maybe later we’ll meet again?”
He gulped.
She released a sigh of regret. “But at the moment, I’m here for the king.”
If the guard mistook her to be a consort, that was his own fault. It would help her get an audience with the king all that much faster.
He led her through the camp, where she understandably received a lot of astonished glances. Women who weren’t cooks or laundresses were rare in a soldier’s encampment.
Once they arrived at the royal pavilion, the guardsman spoke to a fellow guard, who entered the king’s quarters. After a moment, she was allowed in.
She tried not to appear shocked when she saw the king half-reclining on his pallet in only his sheer leine with the coverlet pulled up to his waist.
He gave her an appreciative smile.
“To what do we owe this lovely surprise?” he asked. “We didn’t order a consort.”
She gave him a silky reply. “Why, Your Grace, I’m flattered, but I fear ye misunderstand my presence here. I’m Lady Hilda o’ Dunlop.”
Malcolm was understandably flustered. He stammered and then glared at his guards.
She swept in to soothe him. “But I’m so very grateful for your attention, and I apologize for the earliness o’ the hour. This should take but a few moments.”
The king seemed mollified by her words, though he modestly pulled the coverlet up to his neck.
“I’m the niece o’ the Laird o’ Dunlop and cousin to Lady Carenza,” she told him with a nod of deference.
“Lady Carenza,” the king echoed.
Naturally he’d heard of Carenza, even if he hadn’t been back in Scotland long. Her beauty and sweetness were legendary.
“I’ve been sent to request royal approval o’ Lady Carenza’s betrothal.”
She reached into her satchel and pulled out the rolled parchment. She hoped he wouldn’t notice that, according to the document, the marriage had already been accomplished.
As she expected, the king was uncomfortable enough with his misjudgment of the situation to wish to be done with her as soon as possible.
“Scribe!” he called.
“I think ye’ll be well pleased with the match, Your Grace.”
Her words made him reconsider. After all, Lady Carenza was a valuable asset when it came to clan alliances. “Who is the bridegroom?”
“Sir Hew du Lac o’ Rivenloch.”
“Rivenloch?” He stroked his chin, seeming to consider the match. But he couldn’t hide the satisfaction in his eyes. To be able to reward his most loyal clan with such a prize was propitious indeed. “Aye, that would please us.”
Thankfully, the king paid more heed to the flourish of his signature and the proximity of the hot sealing wax to his leine-clad chest than to the words on the document.
As promised, their exchange took but a few moments. He seemed relieved to be rid of her and done with the whole embarrassing ordeal.
With the first and most difficult part of her mission accomplished, Eve could rest easier. She thanked the king, curtseyed, and exited the pavilion.
Just outside, she took a moment to collect her nerves. She carefully rolled the dried, sealed parchment and tucked it into her satchel. Then she crouched to tighten the buckles on her pattens.
She rather liked the height these pattens gave her, she decided. They made her feel imposing. And powerful. Perhaps she would wear them more often.
She suddenly heard the king call out a greeting from inside his pavilion.
She blinked. She would have sworn he’d said “Adam.”
Then she chided herself. He could have as easily said Edmund or Baldwin…or Madam. Even if he had said Adam, there were probably a dozen Adams in the king’s service.
Still, it troubled her. Eyeing the guards behind her and the soldiers milling about, she slipped back around the shadowy side of the pavilion and leaned close to listen through the canvas wall.
The king was speaking.
“We hear congratulations are in order for your clan.”
The response was muffled. She placed her ear against the fabric, not an easy feat with a thick horsetail braid.
The king continued, “Your cousin Hew’s betrothal?”
“Ah. Aye, Your Grace.”
Eve froze. It was hard to be certain. The accent was more noble, less rustic. But his voice…
He asked, “Did my aunt Deirdre send word?”
It was him. It was Adam.
But “cousin Hew”? “My aunt”? Was he feigning to be a Rivenloch? Was that why he needed that medallion?
“Nay, not Deirdre,” the king said. “Lady Carenza’s cousin was just here. Did ye not cross paths?”
Eve’s heart stopped. Shite. What if Lady Carenza didn’t have a cousin? What if Adam knew that?
“Her cousin was just here?” Adam replied. “I didn’t see him.”
“Her,” the king corrected.
“Her?” Adam echoed. “Hmm. Is that so? I don’t believe we’ve met.”
Eve’s heart began pounding like a fuller’s mill. She could hear it in his voice. He knew. She couldn’t imagine how, but he knew.
The king continued, “So what news do you bring from the enemy camp?”
Enemy camp? Was Adam a spy?
“It’s worse now, Your Grace. He’s besieging keeps of other clans, demanding fealty from the survivors.”
“Fealty?”
“Aye. There are some who believe he wishes to form an alliance with the English against Your Grace.”
“What the devil? This is serious indeed.”
Eve scowled. Who were they talking about?
“We shall muster the troops this eve,” the king decided. “We’ll attack at dawn.”
“At dawn?”
“Aye. Knock down the rebellion ere breakfast.”
Eve chewed at her lip. She had to make herself scarce. Not only because she’d overheard something she shouldn’t have. But because she suddenly realized the truth.
Adam wasn’t feigning to be a Rivenloch. He was a Rivenloch.
And even if the king wasn’t perceptive enough to realize he’d once played the Pope’s emissary, he apparently knew Adam of Rivenloch well enough to trust him as a royal spy.
Her brain suddenly spun in a maelstrom of shock and fear, surprise and dismay, disillusionment and horror.
How could she not have known?
The fact that he could carry off an air of nobility so well should have been an obvious sign.
Just like the rest of his clan, he was strong, handsome, and bright. Now that she thought of it, he even bore a resemblance to the other Rivenloch men she’d seen. He had the same broad shoulders. The same square jaw. The same fierce eyes.
No wonder he’d been so eager for the return of his medallion. The piece was legitimately his.
But she’d been blinded by her affections. And he’d taken advantage of that blindness. He’d made her fall in love with him.
Her eyes welled. Her throat closed. How could she have left herself so vulnerable?
Then she gave her head a firm shake. She couldn’t dwell on her failure.
She had to figure out what to do now.
As much as it crushed her, as much as it made her heart crack in two, she had to face the truth.
Adam had never been serious about marrying her. The idea was absurd. He thought she was an outlaw. A Rivenloch bachelor was a valuable pawn. The king would never allow him to wed a female thief.
But of course Adam had known that all along.
So Eve must have been part of his cover as a spy. A foil to afford him anonymity. A traveling companion to help him embed himself into whatever clan he had under surveillance.
He’d deceived her—kissing her, holding her, swiving her—all the while letting her believe he was a common outlaw like her.
Tears of heartbreak threatened at the corners of her eyes.
It was as if she’d slept with with a stranger.
She’d been so full of affection and desire and hope. He’d awakened things inside of her she’d never known were there.
Now she mourned the life she might have led. The husband she might have adored. The mother she might have become.
Her chest felt as if an anvil had been set on top of it. Her heart ached with loss and longing.
Yet more than just her heart was at stake.
There was no time for grief. She had to protect her mission.
Adam knew about the marriage document now. He would be furious if he found out it was Eve who had manipulated the king into signing it. He might try to seize it. To destroy it.
She couldn’t let that happen. She’d sworn to Hew and Carenza that she would see their union sealed. She owed them a debt of honor.
She had to flee.
As she turned and wove her determined way through the campfires, she spied persistent M-M-Martin hovering at the edge of the camp. He took a tentative, hopeful step toward her as she neared. But she gave him a quick shake of her head, instantly quelling his advances. Then she hurtled past the last pavilion and through the forest, eager to get back to the safety of the convent.
A few hundred yards down the path, she realized while her pattens gave her desirable stature, the wobbly things were slowing her. She stopped for a moment, crouching down to unbuckle them and shove them into her satchel.
Then she rose again and lunged forward, abruptly colliding with a thick wool gambeson.
Chapter 19
From the first moment the king mentioned a visit from Lady Carenza of Dunlop’s cousin, Adam’s suspicions were aroused. Why would the king hear about the marriage between Carenza and Hew from a mere cousin of the bride and not from the Laird of Rivenloch? It didn’t make sense.
