Page 31 of Laird of Flint
Perhaps being a man’s pet wasn’t so bad. A pet was beloved. Well cared for. Treasured. As long as Carenza stayed obediently on her leash and didn’t bite, she would always be protected and cherished.
Why then did the prospect of being kept in luxurious captivity depress her so?
She sighed heavily, making a soft mist in the chill air.
She gazed up toward her father’s window. She certainly wasn’t staying on her leash tonight. Fortunately, the laird was asleep. His window was shuttered. If all went well, he’d never learn about her midnight adventure.
As she eased open the garden gate, she saw movement beyond it. She froze. Someone was striding across the courtyard.
She narrowed her eyes. It was a monk. What was he doing here?
She watched as he headed toward the keep and was let inside. Perhaps someone in the clan was ill and had summoned him—for prayers, a blessing, or to administer last rites. She was just grateful she’d lingered in the garden. The last person she needed to encounter on her sinful enterprise was a man of the cloth.
She shivered.
Not from the chill in the air. She was well protected from the cold. Her bulky garments made a thick if unwieldy barrier against the weather. She’d thrown an old plaid over her shoulder. If anyone spotted her at a distance, they’d assume she was a short, stout, crusty old fellow.
Nay, she shivered because, of all the clandestine excursions she’d made under the laird’s nose, this was the most daring. The most perilous. And the most illicit.
Lifting her eyes to the barbican, she saw the guard slumped against the wall. She wasn’t proud of the fact she’d fortified his beer with aqua vitae at supper. But the strong drink assured he’d sleep for the rest of the night. Plenty of time for her to slip in and out of the castle unnoticed.
Still, her heart pounded with trepidation and excitement as she passed through the barbican gate and hiked down the slope. She wondered if this was how the hedgepigs felt, released into the wild.
It was a long trudge over several hills to where the coos slumbered for the night. But Carenza wasn’t afraid. She knew about the wild animals that roamed the countryside in the dark at this time of the year.
The only danger she might face was a pack of wolves. And they would generally rather pick on small, timid prey. Not full-grown coos with sharp horns. And not someone who looked like a substantial, barrel-shaped crofter, tramping boldly over the hillocks.
She took large, confident strides across the grazed slopes. Despite the warmth of her makeshift garb, it was heavy, and her labored breath made frosty curls in the air.
Finally she spotted the cluster of dark forms beneath the pines. Hamish and the rest of the fold, drowsing in the grass.
She approached with stealth then. She didn’t want to startle the beasts.
Hamish was the first to rouse. He tossed his shaggy head, as if shaking off the cobwebs of sleep, which woke the others. But since the cattle were accustomed to her presence, once they caught her scent, they settled back into slumber.
Only Hamish stayed awake, waiting for her to come and give him a scratch.
She meant to be strong. But her eyes filled with tears as she rubbed the furry spot behind his crogged ear. She remembered what a brave wee calf he’d been when he had to be marked and gelded. How he’d rested his head in her lap afterwards. How he’d let her sing him to sleep.
She remembered how she’d occasionally sneak a turnip from the kitchens to take to him. How his eyes rolled with excitement as he crunched the special treat.
She remembered how he always lowed for her that first day after winter when the fold was driven to the ferme to graze. And how eagerly each fall he trotted back to the stone close, knowing Carenza would visit him every day.
A sob escaped her as she brushed the hair out of his handsome face. If all went as planned, Hamish would come back to the close no longer.
She needed him to stay safe. To move on to greener pastures. To leave Dunlop and civilization. To find a wild herd and never return again.
Sniffling and wiping a tear from her cheek with her palm, she murmured, “Are ye ready, lad? Are ye ready to go with me on an adventure?”
She looped the rope she’d brought around his head, dodging his horns and cinching it around his neck. She planned to lead him northeast to the mountains beyond Dunlop. She knew of a secret spot where herds of wild coos sometimes passed. A lovely glen hidden between two high peaks. A glen where a steer could feed to his heart’s delight. Where he could live out his days in peace. Where nobody would find him. Least of all, her father, who meant to cut his life short.
The ground was hard. The air was cold. But Hew didn’t mind. The blood of Vikings flowed in his veins. Besides, it was no less comfortable than his cell at the monastery.
He stretched out his legs, crossing his boots, and draped his plaid over them for warmth. Then he set his axe on his lap, folded his arms over his chest, and leaned back against the trunk of the pine to wait.
He’d barely settled in when the barbican gate swung open again.
He sat forward, unfolding his arms and seizing his axe.
