Page 28 of Laird of Flint
He shrugged. “Somethin’ about the death at the monastery last night. But that’s not important. What’s important is he’s stayin’ nearby for a while.”
Carenza could see she wasn’t going to weasel out of hosting the man for supper. It seemed she’d find out what he looked like after all. But there was one way she could both please her father and put her own heart to rest. She could manage the timing.
“I know, Da,” she said, her eyes sparkling with feigned enthusiasm. “Do ye think he’d like to celebrate Samhain with us?”
“Brilliant, lass!” he exclaimed, lighting up. “I daresay Samhain at Dunlop Castle will be a bit more…festive…than All Saints Day at the monastery.”
“Wonderful,” she said, clasping her hands together under her chin. “I look forward to meetin’ him then.”
Her father kissed her brow in farewell.
Good. For a few days at least—until Samhain—she could put her mind at ease. She could banish all thoughts of warriors and marriage and focus on what was truly important.
By nightfall, she had her plans well in hand. She managed to drift off to slumber and dreamed of happier times when Hamish was a wee calf.
Unfortunately, her dreams curdled into nightmares. She woke in the dark, gasping from a horrifying vision of a Viking with an axe chasing after her beloved coo.
She couldn’t get back to sleep after that. So she wrapped her arisaid about her and opened the shutters to stare up into the cold heavens, where stars winked through the threadbare clouds.
She’d make her move tomorrow night when the moon was full.
Once it was dark, she had to escape unnoticed from the castle. Locate the fold of cattle. Lead Hamish to his new home beyond the hills. And return without getting caught.
She sighed. The task seemed impossible.
But she had no choice. She wasn’t going to let her father kill Hamish.
The wind rose, stirring strands of her loose hair. The cold air made her eyes water. The stars, once steadfast, now blurred and shimmered, untethered and unstable, as if to show her her fate was likewise uncertain.
Chapter 6
As a youth, Hew always relished the glorious rites held at Rivenloch whenever a noble warrior perished in battle. Because the clan was comprised of Viking invaders, Norman knights, Scottish warriors, and one intrepid assassin from the Orient, he was never certain whether the deceased was headed to heaven, hell, or Valhalla. Any ceremony on Rivenloch land was bound to be a melding of Viking tradition, pagan superstition, and Christian doctrine. But the event was invariably celebrated with fire and feasting, singing and storytelling.
So it was a disappointment to learn that burying the deceased layman at Kildunan involved none of these. Indeed, the ceremony stipulated even more decorum and prayer, less food and drink.
The dead man had no living kin. Still, the monks gave him a lengthy and somber service in the church. The man had apparently donated enough wealth to earn him a grave within the monastery walls.
Halfway through a day of burning candles and monotonous chants, Hew had had enough. His belly was growling. And the litany of prayers made him wonder if the monks intended to recite the entire Bible.
But then the elusive Father James made a surprise appearance.
At his arrival, the abbot fawned over the elderly priest. He welcomed him into the church and remarked on what a blessing it was to the deceased to have him present.
Hew studied the man. White-haired and wizened, there was a spark of intelligence in his snapping eyes. Withered he might be, but he missed nothing. His gaze immediately settled on Hew, and Hew could almost hear his thought…What ishedoing here?
Just as quickly, the priest turned his attention back to the matter at hand. He blessed the body and began intoning words of prayer as monks wafted incense over the shroud.
Hew used the opportunity to sink back into the shadows and observe.
Could Father James be the thief?
Was he devout or devious?
Did his holy vestments hide a black heart?
Was his practiced genuflection an indication of his light-fingered habits?
Suspicion must have shown in Hew’s furrowed brow, for beyond Father James, the prior glared pointedly back at him, wordlessly reminding him not to let on that anything was amiss.
