Page 17 of Laird of Flint
Then she stepped into the road. All at once, a man rushed by her so closely and in such haste, she felt the breeze of his passing.
With a tiny squeak, she recoiled.
“Sorry,” he muttered, continuing on.
She frowned. The rude oaf didn’t even bother to turn around to make sure she was unharmed. He just kept taking gigantic strides down the middle of the road, as if he owned it.
Who was he anyway? She knew everyone in the village, and she didn’t recognize his tree-like height, his ox-wide back, or his tawny gold hair.
And that axe. Who carried a fierce battleaxe over his shoulder like that? He looked like a marauding Norseman.
He had something else over his other shoulder. Something round, wrapped in waxed cloth.
She smirked. Maybe it was a head. Aye, that was it. The marauding Norseman had cut off someone’s head and was carrying it back to his longboat.
Then, shaking off her silly wandering thoughts, she continued carefully across the road. There was much to do and no time to waste. She couldn’t afford to be distracted by marauding Norsemen.
“I’m ready to return now,” she told Symon. She’d already purchased a brace of coneys, a dozen beeswax candles, lavender bath oil, and a pair of hair ribbons, mostly for cover.
He tied her last parcel onto his horse and helped her onto Leannan.
Unfortunately, as they rode out of the village and onto the main road, she discovered they were traveling along the same route as the Viking.
When she drew up within sight of the striding giant, she was tempted to seek revenge, to terrorize him by spurring her horse and grazing past him at a gallop. But she resisted the urge.
He looked quite formidable, even from the back. The cloth of his leine strained around his bulky arms, outlining each impressive muscle. The hand gripping the parcel on his shoulder looked massive. His hair gleamed like gold over broad shoulders that funneled down to narrow hips. A leather belt hung low across his buttocks, and it shifted with each long and confident stride.
She told herself he probably had the face of a monster. Scarred from battle. Fierce with berserker rage. Bloody from the beheading he’d just done.
But she’d never know. After all, it was unladylike to gawk at strange men.
So she rode past in silence, fixing her eyes on the road before her and focusing her mind on the daunting challenge ahead.
When Hew returned to the refectory with the leg of mutton, he expected a glare of disapproval from the prior. But the prior was engaged elsewhere. The abbot had the meat whisked away to the kitchens for later use.
The meal was silent as usual. But that was fine with Hew. He’d rather not discuss the fine points of his investigation with the abbot, since his two most likely suspects so far were members of the church.
Perhaps he would mention his suspicions to the prior. After all, the prior was the one who had put their names on the list in the first place.
“Where is the prior?” he murmured to the monk beside him after they’d finished eating.
“In the infirmary.”
“Is he ill?”
“Nay. He’s lookin’ after a layman.”
“A layman?”
The monk nodded and leaned closer to whisper, “A local merchant. The physician’s been summoned. But they’re fairly certain he’ll need last rites soon.”
Hew nodded. That was one of the advantages of making generous donations to a monastery. When a wealthy man was about to die, he could call in favors from the church and live out his days in relative comfort. The infirmary had a dozen soft beds. A warm hearth. Better food than the monks got. Servants to see to a dying man’s every need. And holy men to look after the deceased’s soul.
It was a good arrangement.
“Oh,” Hew suddenly remembered, “do you happen to know what day the almoner turns over donations to Brother Cathal?”
“Thursdays.”
