he’d discovered a robin warming a nest in the crook of a tree, he’d shooed the bird aside and pilfered one of her clutch.
He meant to hand the egg to the lass with a good scolding, chiding her for bringing along a pet for which she couldn’t care. But once he felt her delicate hand within his fist, once he glimpsed the guarded look in her eyes—eyes the color of polished cobbles at the bottom of a stream, olive and russet and emerald mingled—once he beheld the trembling of her rosy lips, he could only speak gently to her.
He silently damned himself for inspiring such revulsion when he only meant her well, but he supposed such was his curse. After all, good intentions had caused the burden of pain he now bore.
How many miles they trudged, he didn’t know. He paid little heed to the woods around him. Wilham and he had traveled so extensively across the countryside, it sometimes seemed he’d committed every tree to memory. There was little in the landscape to surprise him.
‘Twas strange, however, to travel with so many companions and to stop so frequently. Mounted on fresh horses, Wilham and he could ride fifty miles in a day. What was two days’ ride would take them ten on pilgrimage. He supposed the leisurely pace would ultimately prove a blessing, for he could use the time to unmask Archibald of Laichloan’s enemies. But it didn’t ease Blade’s mounting suspicion, born at The Black Hound, that change was in the wind, that somehow this journey, this pilgrimage, would alter him forever.
By the time the pilgrims paused again, Blade was certain the lass must be thirsty enough to drink the holy water out of the vial the priest wore around his neck. She hadn’t brought a wineskin or even a cup as far as he could see, and no one seemed aware or willing to remedy that. It entered his mind to offer her some of his own beer, but she’d doubtless refuse him. A gentlewoman would hardly drink from a vessel that had touched an outlaw’s lips.
Fortunately, the country cottage where they stopped featured an ale-stake protruding from the thatched roof, a sign that fresh brew was available. Blade noted that the lass dug out a few pennies from her purse at once, giving them to the elderly woman, who’d offered to purchase ale for them. At least she’d brought coin.
He leaned back against the shaded wall of the cottage, waiting his turn. Slaking the thirst of a score of pilgrims would take a while. He could wait.
In the meantime, he harkened to the conversations around him, listening for some clue, some slip of the tongue that would betray the identity of the plotters.
The man named Jacob, the goldsmith, paraded past the other pilgrims, no doubt so they could admire the sunlight flashing off his gold jewelry. The voluptuous dark-haired woman walked beside him. Blade didn’t know her name, but ‘twas obvious the two knew each other. She exchanged sly glances with the goldsmith and giggled at his every word as he expounded upon the details of his craft.
The two tanners, Ivo and Odo, squatted beneath an oak and spoke in barely coherent growls, their conversation consisting of crude comments about an alehouse near Falkirk at which one might procure more than just drink from the alewife.
The three scholars were engaged in another debate, this one regarding the merits of mounted men-at-arms over dismounted archers on the battlefield. Blade could have instantly settled their argument for them—he’d been in enough battles to know—but they’d only find another subject upon which to disagree.
Simon the palmer, clasping a wooden cross in his pale hand, murmured prayers with his head bowed. But when Drogo, the cook, happened near, Simon ceased his prayers and invited him closer to look at the sliver of the bone of Saint Regulus he carried in his satchel.
Blade smirked. He wondered if the bone had belonged to some unfortunate nameless beggar found by the roadside or someone’s butchered pig.
Wilham had wandered off
He meant to hand the egg to the lass with a good scolding, chiding her for bringing along a pet for which she couldn’t care. But once he felt her delicate hand within his fist, once he glimpsed the guarded look in her eyes—eyes the color of polished cobbles at the bottom of a stream, olive and russet and emerald mingled—once he beheld the trembling of her rosy lips, he could only speak gently to her.
He silently damned himself for inspiring such revulsion when he only meant her well, but he supposed such was his curse. After all, good intentions had caused the burden of pain he now bore.
How many miles they trudged, he didn’t know. He paid little heed to the woods around him. Wilham and he had traveled so extensively across the countryside, it sometimes seemed he’d committed every tree to memory. There was little in the landscape to surprise him.
‘Twas strange, however, to travel with so many companions and to stop so frequently. Mounted on fresh horses, Wilham and he could ride fifty miles in a day. What was two days’ ride would take them ten on pilgrimage. He supposed the leisurely pace would ultimately prove a blessing, for he could use the time to unmask Archibald of Laichloan’s enemies. But it didn’t ease Blade’s mounting suspicion, born at The Black Hound, that change was in the wind, that somehow this journey, this pilgrimage, would alter him forever.
By the time the pilgrims paused again, Blade was certain the lass must be thirsty enough to drink the holy water out of the vial the priest wore around his neck. She hadn’t brought a wineskin or even a cup as far as he could see, and no one seemed aware or willing to remedy that. It entered his mind to offer her some of his own beer, but she’d doubtless refuse him. A gentlewoman would hardly drink from a vessel that had touched an outlaw’s lips.
Fortunately, the country cottage where they stopped featured an ale-stake protruding from the thatched roof, a sign that fresh brew was available. Blade noted that the lass dug out a few pennies from her purse at once, giving them to the elderly woman, who’d offered to purchase ale for them. At least she’d brought coin.
He leaned back against the shaded wall of the cottage, waiting his turn. Slaking the thirst of a score of pilgrims would take a while. He could wait.
In the meantime, he harkened to the conversations around him, listening for some clue, some slip of the tongue that would betray the identity of the plotters.
The man named Jacob, the goldsmith, paraded past the other pilgrims, no doubt so they could admire the sunlight flashing off his gold jewelry. The voluptuous dark-haired woman walked beside him. Blade didn’t know her name, but ‘twas obvious the two knew each other. She exchanged sly glances with the goldsmith and giggled at his every word as he expounded upon the details of his craft.
The two tanners, Ivo and Odo, squatted beneath an oak and spoke in barely coherent growls, their conversation consisting of crude comments about an alehouse near Falkirk at which one might procure more than just drink from the alewife.
The three scholars were engaged in another debate, this one regarding the merits of mounted men-at-arms over dismounted archers on the battlefield. Blade could have instantly settled their argument for them—he’d been in enough battles to know—but they’d only find another subject upon which to disagree.
Simon the palmer, clasping a wooden cross in his pale hand, murmured prayers with his head bowed. But when Drogo, the cook, happened near, Simon ceased his prayers and invited him closer to look at the sliver of the bone of Saint Regulus he carried in his satchel.
Blade smirked. He wondered if the bone had belonged to some unfortunate nameless beggar found by the roadside or someone’s butchered pig.
Wilham had wandered off
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