Page 100 of Bride of Mist
The combat-toughened pair was not the sort to be swayed by a coy wink and a smile. They were rough-hewn, war-scarred, bitter-mouthed men. They wore bloodstained mail and wielded battle-nicked blades. She was certain they were from the mercenary stock who would side with Gaufrid in the fight to come.
Too little learning or too much fighting had left them thick in the head. They might be bulky with brawn, but they were barren of brain. And she could work with that.
“Hey!” she called out as she neared. “Let me back in, eh?”
The short, bald-pated brute glowered at her and grunted, “I don’t know ye.”
“I don’t know ye either,” she sneered. Then she shook her head as if in impatience and turned to the second man, a red-bearded giant. “Butye…yeremember me, aye?”
He looked uncertain.
“Ye sent me out last even,” she reminded him. “To fetch the priest.” She rolled her eyes. “’Twas a wasted trip. He’s gone to the next village. Ye’ll have to wait till the morrow.”
“What?” He blinked.
“I said ye’ll have to wait. Now are ye goin’ to let me in? I got no sleep last night, thanks to ye.”
“Hold on,” the bearded man said. “’Twasn’t me ye spoke with. I’ve ne’er seen ye before.”
“Ye don’t remember?” She clucked her tongue. “Well, to be fair, ye were in your cups and barely seein’ straight.”
The bald man cuffed him. “I told ye not to drink on the watch.”
The red-beard squinched his piggish eyes. “I wasn’t drunk.”
“Why else would ye summon a priest?” the bald man scoffed.
“I didn’t.”
“Och aye, ye did,” she told him. “Ye said ye needed to confess.”
The bald man barked out a laugh.
Two red brows drew together. “Confess what?”
She shrugged. “Ye were cryin’ in your ale o’er swivin’ some other fellow’s lass.”
“What?” His face colored to match his beard. “I did no such—”
“Plowin’ another man’s field, eh?” The bald man chortled in amusement.
“Nay,” the red-beard insisted. “I don’t know what she’s talkin’ about. I ne’er—”
“Wait.” The bald man’s scowl darkened as he addressed her. “Whose lass did he say he was swivin’? ’Twasn’t Ivo, was it? Ivo’s lass?”
“Aye, that’s it,” she said, brightening. “Swivin’ Ivo’s lass.”
“What?” The red-beard’s eyes grew round with panic. “Ballocks! She’s lyin’. I swear—”
That was all the further he got.
Ivo—at least sheassumedthat was who he was—clouted the red-bearded philanderer in the nose before he could finish his sentence.
The blow rocked red-beard’s head back and drew blood. But his injury didn’t keep him from returning the favor. He gave Ivo a shove that sent him skidding across the ground on his arse and followed up with a dive that flattened his companion, Ivo, squirming beneath him, snatched at his beard, yanking until the man howled.
Stealing into the castle around the two brawling guards was child’s play.
Once inside, she walked with purpose, as if she knew exactly where she was going. The true secret to blending in was appearing to be bored. So she sighed, pretending she’d rather be anywhere than traipsing through the courtyard at this early hour.
