by Speer, Flora
“Indeed?” said Royce, casting an amused glance in Quentin’s direction. “Well, then, we will have to find a female disguise. A tavern wench, perhaps?”
“No.” Quentin’s voice was quieter than before, but no less firm.
“Why not a nun?” Cadwallon suggested. When Fionna gaped at him in surprise, he winked at her. “It seems to me a perfect disguise. Who would ever guess Fionna could become a meek, obedient nun?”
Fionna was about to object, until it struck her that Cadwallon was right.
“Not only will a nun’s habit disguise me from my brothers,” she said to Royce, “but when we reach Abercorn the dress will gain me ready entrance, so I can locate Janet more easily.”
“You are not going into Abercorn alone,” Quentin said.
“Can you think of a safer place for an innocent maiden?” she asked with false sweetness. She had the pleasure of hearing Quentin suck in a hasty breath and of seeing him drop his gaze.
“The only difficulty I can see with Cadwallon’s idea,” Royce said, “is that we don’t have nun’s robes among the supplies we brought from Wortham. Nor can we knock at any convent or abbey door to ask for a suitable disguise.”
“Quite right,” Cadwallon agreed. “I spoke too hastily, without thinking through the matter first. For lack of the proper clothing, Fionna cannot be a nun just yet. But she can be a widowed Norman lady who seeks to become a nun. This lady, whose name will be Ursula, has set aside her rich clothing and jewels in order to don a well-worn, plain woolen gown for her ride to Abercorn to beg admission there. And we, her male relatives, will render our last respects to her secular life by escorting her along the way, taking with us men-at-arms to provide suitable protection.”
“Excellent,” said Royce, nodding his approval of the revised story.
“Furthermore,” Cadwallon went on, “our dear Cousin Ursula has taken a vow of silence, which will conceal her Scottish accent. She can wear Quentin’s old cloak, and if we pass through a town we can buy cloth to make a wimple to cover her hair, as married and widowed women do.
“People only notice what they expect to see,” Cadwallon said, “and no one in all of Scotland expects to see Fionna. I’ll wager even her brothers won’t recognize her, and furthermore, I won’t be surprised if she has some difficulty in convincing Janet she is who she claims to be.”
“Well, well,” said Royce, looking at Cadwallon with bemused respect, “it’s a pity you were too young to join me when I was performing secret tasks for King Henry. I could have used you in those days. Still, we will make good use of your clever wits now. What say you, Lady Fionna? Will you hide your hair under a wimple and pretend to be a postulant?”
“I will,” she responded without hesitation. Then, because she was curious about Royce, she asked him, “Were you really a spy for King Henry?”
“Many years ago, when I was young, I used to gather information about the intentions of the French king. Louis VI is a devious man, with interesting involvements in Scottish affairs, as well as an interest in King Henry’s lands on the continent.” Royce’s smile suggested he was recalling amusing events. Then his smile vanished, leaving his handsome face solemn. He rose from the table rather abruptly. “I set aside that part of my life when I married. A man has no business undertaking such dangerous work once he has family responsibilities. Now, if you will excuse me, I am for bed. Don’t sit up too late, my friends. We have a long day tomorrow.”
“He’s not a happy man,” Fionna remarked as Royce vanished through the tent flaps.
“Royce hasn’t been happy for years,” Quentin said. “Not since his wife died.”
“Are you claiming a nobleman married for reasons other than a large dowry?” Fionna exclaimed in disbelief. “I thought nobles in any country made arranged marriages and cared nothing for their wives.” She sounded bitter, for she was thinking of her late mother and of her three sisters-in-law, two of them dead, all of them Murdoch’s sad wives.
Quentin gave her a long, searching look before he explained.
“Royce did make an arranged marriage. In his case the agreement between two sets of avaricious parents quickly turned into a love match for the couple involved. Royce and Lady Avisa were devoted to each other.” Quentin paused, looking from Fionna to Cadwallon, and it was to Cadwallon he addressed his next remarks. “Thank you for encouraging Royce to continue his northward ride to find me. I freely confess, I had an ulterior motive for wanting to bring him into this affair. I hope the project to spirit Lady Janet out of Scotland will distract him from his prolonged grief and perhaps restore his interest in life.”
“He counts you as his dearest friend, next to King Henry,” Cadwallon said. “Listening to you at this moment, I think he has good reason.”
“Royce and I worked together when I was still a squire and he was already a knight and King Henry’s personal secret agent. He displayed a real talent for spying. We learned to depend on each other for our lives. Twice he saved mine,” Quentin said.
“You were a spy, too?” Fionna cried in surprise.
“Yes, until I won my spurs at the battle of Tinchebrai, nine years ago,” Quentin answered. “Most folk ignore squires, who are thus able to get close enough to both nobles and servants to pick up valuable information. That’s what Braedon has been doing for me at the Scottish court. It’s why I took him along.”
“Are you saying you are still acting as a spy for King Henry?” Fionna asked.
“Not officially. I’ve been promoted to diplomat,” Quentin said with a quick smile. Then he finished the account of his youth. “Soon after I was knighted, Royce and I returned to England with King Henry. A few months later my father died and shortly thereafter the king confirmed me in the honor of Alney, which Father once held. Royce and I are both too well known to be effective as ordinary spies any longer, but we can direct other men in their work.”
“I know so little about you,” Fionna murmured. There remained an important detail she did not know, a question she could not leave unasked after hearing Royce’s story. “Quentin, are you married?”
“I was,” he said. “Like Royce, I am a widower. Unlike Royce, mine was not a happy marriage, only a cool and polite arrangement.”
“Do you have children?”
“No.” Quentin was on his feet. “As I said, it was a cold marriage. Cadwallon, will you see Fionna to her tent?”
“Of course,” Cadwallon said, but Quentin was already gone.
“How fascinating,” Fionna mused, “to dine with a pair of men who will leave the table rather than speak more than a sentence or two about their late wives.”
“They are silent for very different reasons,” Cadwallon said. “I’ve only known Royce since last spring, but for years I’ve heard stories about his marriage, and how distraught he was when Lady Avisa died. Some people say he blamed himself for her death.”
“How did she die?” Fionna asked.
“I don’t know.” Now Cadwallon was standing.
“Here’s another man who will not speak about a wife,” Fionna teased, looking up at him.
“If I had a wife, I’d gladly speak about her,” Cadwallon said. “Unfortunately, I have no lady to call my own, and no hope of finding one until King Henry decides to reward my devoted service by granting me a plot of land.”
“Did you know Quentin’s wife?” Fionna couldn’t resist asking.
“Oh, yes, I knew her. Lady Amabelle was often at court. She much preferred the court to Alney.”
“Was she beautiful?”
“Gloriously beautiful,” Cadwallon said. “It was sheer delight to behold her. She was always perfectly attired and adorned with magnificent jewels. She was exquisitely courteous. And cold as ice. The woman possessed not one drop of warm blood in her entire body. I occasionally wondered how Quentin managed to consummate the marriage. I don’t think I could have done it. I doubt I’m man enough to penetrate such hauteur.”
“You disliked her.” It was obvio
us after Cadwallon’s damning assessment, but Fionna couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“I wasn’t the only man to look upon her and see naught but a bitter chill. Lady Amabelle has been dead for five years,” Cadwallon said. “While she lived, she never held Quentin’s heart. You have no cause to be jealous of her.”
“I am not jealous, only surprised. I didn’t guess he was married, and I didn’t think to ask before tonight. Now I wonder what else I don’t know about him.”
“A great deal,” Cadwallon said, “all of which I’m sure you will learn, in time. I can tell you this much without breaking his confidence: Quentin keeps no mistress. He is almost as celibate as a monk, which is unusual for a wealthy and powerful baron, especially for a man with close ties to King Henry. Now, the king – God save him! – is the least monkish man in England or Normandy! I do believe Henry has lost count of all his bastard children.
“But as to Quentin,” Cadwallon said, “Quentin needs an heir. King Henry must think so, too, for a rumor at court says he has promised Quentin a great heiress as his reward for completing the agreement with King Alexander.”
“Oh?” Fionna said, trying to sound indifferent. Cadwallon’s sharp look told her she hadn’t succeeded.
“The thing is,” Cadwallon said, “I have met the lady Eleanor. She’s little more than a child, silly and flighty and ignorant.”
“Nobles often marry young girls,” Fionna said. “If the dowries are large enough. My brother Murdoch did. Three times, in fact.”
“I cannot imagine Quentin finding happiness with a spoiled little girl,” Cadwallon said.
“If King Henry decides he is to wed this Lady Eleanor, Quentin will have little choice.” Fionna was surprised at how steady her voice was.
“No,” Cadwallon agreed with a sigh, “I suppose not.”
Chapter 8
An heir, Fionna thought, tossing upon her narrow cot. Aye, a great Norman nobleman like Quentin of Alney will want a Norman lady with impeccable bloodlines to bear him a noble Norman heir.
She told herself what she had learned that evening didn’t matter to her. Now that Quentin was surrounded by armed men she needn’t fear that Murdoch and Gillemore would be able to carry out their murderous scheme against him. She considered her debt to Quentin discharged. His well-being and his future were no longer her concern.
She ought to be happy about that. On the morrow she would set off to rescue Janet with the aid of a band of well-trained and disciplined warriors, four of whom were clever spies and one of whom – Cadwallon – was proving to be a dependable friend. If Janet still lived, they’d find her and carry her far from the clutches of her devious brothers. Two weeks ago, Fionna would have asked for nothing more.
She turned restlessly from one side to the other. Though not very wide, the cot was perfectly comfortable, and she was tired at the end of a long day. Only her thoughts were keeping her awake. Her thoughts...and her longing for Quentin’s touch.
She rolled over again, sighing. The sound of low voices penetrated the canvas walls of the tent. Fionna’s heart recognized one of those voices. Rising quickly she drew her blanket around her shoulders to cover the shift that was all she was wearing. Grass tickled her bare feet as she moved to the tent flap and pushed it back.
“Quentin?” she called softly. “Why are you awake so late?”
“There’s nothing to fear,” he responded at once. “I’ve been talking over our plans with Royce and Cadwallon, and refining the details. The watch is changing now and I stopped to speak with the sentries posted at your tent. Good night, Fionna. Sleep well.”
“I can’t sleep. All I can think about is Janet,” she said. Then, as the import of his words sank into her mind her old distrust of Normans flared anew. “What do you mean, you were going over your plans? I thought they were my plans, too, and that we were all agreed on how to rescue Janet. If you have made any changes, I want to know what they are You have no right to proceed without my approval, not when you are playing a spy’s game with my sister’s life.”
“It is not a game.”
“Prove it,” she demanded. “Tell me everything you have decided without my knowledge.”
She sensed his hesitation. Several long moments passed before Quentin stepped into her tent. The pale blue canvas of the walls and roof did not filter out all of the light from numerous campfires, or the glow from oil lamps burning in other, nearby tents. In that soft illumination Fionna could see Quentin’s face beneath the fringe of his dark hair and she knew he was watching her with his usual intense gaze. His tall, muscular presence filled the tent, making her want to back away from him, while at the same time she yearned to move forward, into the shelter of his arms.
Suddenly, she realized how little she actually knew about the plan. Royce had asked her to enter Abercorn as a postulant, but the men hadn’t talked about what they were going to do while she was inside the abbey. The conversation had veered onto the subject of spying careers, and then to the private lives of Royce and Quentin. Fionna began to question the direction of that after-dinner talk, and to wonder if she had been deliberately diverted from discussion of the real plans the men were making.
“This will probably take some time.” She gestured toward the cot, the only object in the tent that offered seating space. “Would you like to sit down while we talk?”
“It would not be a good idea,” Quentin said. “Anyway, I won’t be here long. You asked about our plan. It’s simple enough, though you must understand that the exact details of such a mission always change along the way as unforeseen circumstances arise.”
“What kind of circumstances?” she asked.
“In most convents and abbeys men aren’t allowed beyond the entry hall. If that’s the case at Abercorn, you will have to find Janet on your own and bring her out to us. Perhaps the abbess will object to Janet’s departure and we will have to deal with her. I won’t go into all the possibilities involving interference from your brothers. I’m sure you have repeatedly considered those possibilities.”
“Yes,” she said with a sigh. “That’s why I can’t sleep. I do understand the need to make swift changes in the plan if unexpected obstructions to it occur. Please, just tell me what your intentions are.”
“We will ride directly to Abercorn, which will take four or five days,” Quentin said. “Once there, Royce’s men will surround the place. Then Cadwallon and I will accompany you inside. We will be fully armed and we intend to remain with you while you speak with the abbess and make arrangements for Janet to leave.”
“You cannot imagine I will require an armed guard in so holy a place,” Fionna exclaimed.
“I have known convents where assassins lurked,” Quentin said. “We don’t know the loyalties of the abbess or the other nuns, or of any priest who may be in residence at Abercorn. I want you and Janet to walk out of the gate alive and unharmed, preferably within an hour of our arrival there.”
“What about you?” Fionna asked, assailed by sudden fear. She told herself she was only reacting to his remarks about entering a religious house in full armor and bearing a sword. Still, she couldn’t help what she was feeling, nor could she stop herself from revealing her emotions. “Quentin, I don’t want anyone to come to harm over this.”
“We will be as cautious as possible,” he said. “I expect no great difficulty at the abbey. I still carry with me the letter from King Henry in which he declares my status as his personal ambassador. I also have a note bearing King Alexander’s seal, which promises safe passage out of Scotland for me and all of my companions. That is the document we’ll use if anyone questions why a band of foreigners has come for Janet. Your sister will be released. I swear it.”
“On your word of honor. I know.” She regarded the firm line of his mouth as she stated the most outstanding aspect of his character. “No matter what the danger, you will fulfill the promise you have made.”
“I will,” he said.
“I am so sorr
y I involved you in all of this,” she whispered. “Were it not for me, you would be well into England by now and safe from any threat my brothers might offer. Instead, you are about to ride back into danger.” Unable to stop the impulsive gesture, she put out a hand, laying it on his chest. Quentin caught his breath, then laid his hand over hers.
“Are you saying you’ve changed your mind?” he asked. “Surely, you don’t want Janet to remain where she is?”
“No, never!” She was still whispering, but her low cry held all the force of a loud wail of terror. “We can’t leave Janet to my brothers’ mercy. They have no mercy. I only meant, I don’t want you to be hurt. Oh, or Cadwallon, either,” she hastily added.
“I am glad you mentioned Cadwallon,” he whispered with a soft chuckle. “Dare I believe you honestly care what happens to – well, to either of us?”
“Of course, I care. You saved my life and Cadwallon has become like a brother to me – like the kind of brother I always wished I had,” she quickly amended when she felt his chest begin to quake with barely suppressed laughter.
“Who would ever imagine you could still long for a brother, after the way your own kin have treated you?” he murmured. “Ah, Fionna, I never know whether to trust you completely, or tie you up to prevent you from causing more harm.”
“I have trusted you from the first,” she declared.
“Have you? I wonder.”
Before Fionna could declare that she was not trying to deceive him, Quentin slid an arm around her waist, drawing her toward him. He wasn’t wearing chainmail; he had washed and changed into his blue woolen tunic and hose for the evening. Without the usual metal barrier of his body armor between them, she was instantly enveloped in his warm, masculine strength.
Quentin still kept his hand firmly over hers on his chest, a position that meant the back of his hand was pressed against Fionna’s bosom. She shook with sudden longing, while she wondered if he would change his mind and decide to lie down with her. She thought her cot was wide enough to hold two, if they lay close together. She ought to be ashamed of a desire so improper, but she couldn’t regret wanting Quentin to hold her.