Page 12 of Laird of Smoke
Besides, why would an old, crippled beggar be following her?
Clearly, encountering that knight who had the same eyes as the Pope’s emissary had unsettled her.She needed to pull herself together before she started jumping at shadows.
The poor old man walked with a crutch, for heaven’s sake.By his raggedy clothes and his raggedy beard, she guessed the satchel he carried contained all his worldly possessions.The load bent his back into a severe hunch.Under other circumstances, Sister Eve would have offered to carry it for him at least a mile or two.
But she wasn’t Sister Eve now.She was Lady Aillenn.A refined Irish noblewoman of wealth who was accustomed to getting what she wanted.And she wanted to get to Scone before the silversmith closed his shop.
So she satisfied herself by maintaining a safe distance.Surely in his condition, he wasn’t planning on traveling to Scone anyway.It was a three-mile journey.
He must have been fitter than he looked.Against all odds, he did indeed manage to shadow her all the way to Scone.
Now she definitely had to lose him.He could be a thief.If he wasn’t considering robbing her already, he’d be inclined to do so if he saw her visiting a silversmith.And she absolutely couldn’t have him following her to her place of lodging.
So once she entered the village, she intentionally dawdled, stopping in at several shops to make small unnecessary purchases.A ribbon here.A pair of gloves there.Herbs for the bath.
But always when she exited a shop, he was there.
He no doubt imagined himself inconspicuous among the crowd of villagers.Lounging against a wall.Sorting through his satchel.Examining the wares at a craftsman’s counter.
But his ubiquitous presence was too coincidental.He must have marked her for theft.She needed to shake him once and for all.
Walking briskly, she turned left down a narrow street between shops and then made an immediate right.She pressed herself against the plaster wall, waiting to see if he would follow.
She heard the clop of his crutch and the scrape of his boots as he came down the street.She held her breath, waiting for him to arrive.
She would do him no harm.She only meant to scare him.To make sure he learned she was not a lady to be victimized.
So when he stepped past her place of hiding, she sprang out, shouting, “Off with ye!”
To her astonishment, he wasn’t all that surprised.He blinked a few times.But he wasn’t frightened off at all.
Perhaps he was simpleminded.Perhaps he’d only followed her the way a duckling follows its mother.
Still, she didn’t want him tagging along behind her.She led a clandestine life.She couldn’t afford to interact with strangers.
To make her point clear, she furrowed her brows and in her best Irish accent, bit out, “Leave me be, sirrah.”
He only stared, seeming not to understand.
Then she noticed his beard was drooping oddly from his chin on one side.
It wasn’t real, she realized.
The knave was wearing a disguise.
She’d worn such fake beards twice before.Once when she’d posed as Mahmud the Arab spice trader.And once as King Arthur of Tintagel’s bastard son.
With a gleam of revelation in her eyes, she reached up and gave it a sharp yank.
The man cried out in pain and surprise as the beard tore off his chin, plopping onto the palm of her hand like a fat, furry squirrel.
She beamed at him in triumph, anticipating his look of outrage.
But it was she who was astonished.
“Ye,” she breathed, searching his vibrant brown eyes.It was him.He was the Pope’s emissary.Andthe knight.“’Tis ye.”
Adam paled.
