Page 47 of Laird of Flint
But when a man was faced with the prospect of twisting the truth in order to salvage the reputation of a lady as lovely as Carenza, the price of his soul seemed fair.
The instant Hew emerged from his cell, the abbot demanded, “Do ye know aught about this beast?”
He pointed to what admittedly resembled a hulking horned demon guarding the church well. To his credit, Hamish sat in quiet compliance, looking as tame as a lady’s palfrey.
The other monks waited to hear Hew’s answer, probably glad to be distracted from their usual boring prayers.
But Hew decided the less said, the better. “I do, but…” He glanced meaningfully around at all the other witnesses.
The abbot received his unspoken message and waved the others off. “To matins.”
The prior looked particularly displeased at being excluded from the conversation, but he obediently herded the others along.
When they were gone, the abbot asked, “So what’s this about?”
“’Tis part of my investigation into the thefts.”
His brows shot up. “A coo?”
“Aye.”
“How? Do ye think a coo stole the treasures?”
“I can’t explain yet,” he said grimly. “But I assure you in time ’twill become clear.”
“A coo.”
“Aye,” Hew replied with even more conviction.
The abbot gave his white-tonsured head a dubious shake, but mumbled, “I suppose ye know what ye’re doin’.”
Just then a sharp and piercing wail came from across the yard.
The abbot frowned in concern.
But warrior Hew’s instincts kicked in first. He bolted forward, leading the way toward the sound, wishing he’d brought his axe.
As it turned out, there was no need for a weapon. One of the young novices had simply tripped over his robes in the dark passage. He’d fallen and broken his arm.
It was severe enough that the prior decided the lad would need the services of the physician from Dunlop.
Carenza woke with a silent scream stuck in her throat. Her heart pounded like a fuller’s mill. She’d had the chilling nightmare again, the one where the Viking of Rivenloch was chasing after Hamish with his great axe. Only this time, since she’d met the warrior face-to-face and hefted his formidable weapon herself, the details were far more vivid.
“’Tis only a dream,” she rasped out, repeating it thrice to convince herself.
She rattled her head, still clouded with cobwebs. She felt as if she’d lain awake all night. But she could see light through the shutters. She had to rise at her usual time if she didn’t wish to arouse suspicion.
Her eyes burned, her muscles ached, and her head throbbed. Still, her father would expect her to break her fast with the clan. And Troye the hound would expect his usual scraps. So she staggered out of bed and splashed water on her face, shivering as the icy drops shocked her awake.
She chose her rose-colored surcoat. The one her da liked so well. The one that would best disguise her sleepless pallor. Then she quickly braided her hair into two plaits, fastening them with the new ribbon she’d bought in the village.
She pinched her cheeks to give them some color and dabbed a generous amount of rosewater onto her skin to hide any lingering scent of cattle.
Her main task today was to act oblivious. To be her own cheery self. To behave as if nothing unusual had happened. And to be completely dumbfounded and appalled when it was discovered that a cateran had stolen one of her father’s coos.
Emerging from her chamber and down into the great hall, however, she realized it was later than she thought. The castle folk were already finishing up their ale and oatcakes and leaving to do their chores.
Meanwhile, the Boyle brothers had been discovered and freed from their bonds. They stood in the midst of the hall. Red-faced with indignant fury, they gesticulated wildly, explaining to her glowering father what had happened.
