by Kira Morgan
Even before the echo of Rane’s oath died, Florie’s chin began to tremble. She stared at the closed door in disbelief, and it blurred through her welling tears as her throat thickened with the urge to sob.
Rane had never intended to keep his word, she realized. He’d lied to her, forsaken her. After all they’d endured together—pain and succor, exhaustion and solace, shame and triumph—he’d ruthlessly betrayed her. Faith, his treachery stung far worse than any broken vows her foster father had made, worse even than her mother abandoning her.
But she fought back the despicable impulse to weep. Weeping was for weakhearted maids who couldn’t compete in a man’s world. Florie was stronger than that. She gave an angry sniff and whisked away the droplets gathered on her lashes.
Somehow she’d manage. Somehow she’d survive. She always had. She didn’t need the archer. And when he came back, she’d tell him so.
If he came back.
It didn’t matter, she told herself. She was better off without him.
Still, she couldn’t help stealing glances at the church door every few moments. She worried her sleeve between her fingers and chewed at her lip as the candle beside her burned down a quarter of an inch, then half. Another half inch melted away as she adjusted her makeshift pillow beneath her head, scrunching the fabric into a shape more conducive to slumber.
But she couldn’t sleep. The hour grew late. Where had the archer gone? To the woods? Home? Now that her leg was improving, had he left her for good? Would he ever return?
She flopped onto her side and pulled the plaids over her shoulders, smearing away a stray tear of self-pity with a furious swipe. She didn’t care if he ever came back, she told herself.
After all, he was an arrogant knave.
A vile worm.
A miserable cur.
A black-hearted whoreson who…
The church door swept open abruptly, banging back against the wall, catapulting her heart against her ribs. In staggered Rane, struggling with a steaming cauldron. She rose up on her elbows with a puzzled frown. Muttering irritably, Rane lugged the heavy basin forward, finally setting it beside her on the flagstones.
“Oh,” she breathed, suddenly realizing what he’d done. Indeed, so moved was she that she nearly strangled on the lump rising in her throat.
He scowled as if he’d had to travel to the Orient to get the hot water, but she could tell her response pleased him. He dropped a linen cloth into the basin.
“I haven’t any rose petals to sprinkle in, my lady,” he said with heavy sarcasm, shaking out his wet hands. “’Tis only a basin, not a full bath. But ye’ve got soap and a rag. ’Tis the best I can manage.”
Florie’s eyes teared up again, and she self-consciously brushed away the moisture. “’Tis more than enough,” she choked out.
He grunted. “See ye don’t get your bandage wet,” he said, wagging his finger, “and leave me a little o’ the water before it cools.” Then he left her to her ablutions.
For Florie, it may not have been the most complete scrubbing she’d had before the Sabbath, but ’twas indeed the most welcome.
As she finished washing behind her ears, she cast a glance up at the cobweb-strewn altar, sending up a word of thanks to God for sending her Rane McAllister, as well as an apology for all the wretched names she’d called him.
One more prayer remained. ’Twas not precisely a prayer. Indeed, ’twas more akin to a curse, and Florie flushed with chagrin even as she formed the words. She clasped her hands before her and made a silent appeal to Sebastian, the patron saint of archers, that until such time as Rane saw fit to keep his promise to her, his bow arm would tremble and his arrows would fly astray.
Mavis awoke in the dark, roused by the familiar, unwelcome ache, low in her belly, of her courses coming on. She moaned and reached out an arm for Gilbert. But she’d forgotten he was gone, summoned to the queen’s court, leaving her alone in her misery. Frustration and anger twisted her mouth as tears filled her eyes.
She’d been foolish enough to hope that maybe this time his seed would take, maybe this time she’d grow fat and happy with a son, and she could forget about everything—King Henry’s bitter betrayal, her exile from the Scots court to this miserable patch of land, and, aye, even that pesky whelp at the fair with the incriminating pomander.
But the stars had crossed her again. And now she’d be forced to endure another month of malicious whispers. She despised the gossips, who clucked their tongues, spreading rumors that the sheriff’s second wife might do no better than his first and leave their lord childless. Worst of all, in the darkest recesses of her heart, Mavis lived in fear they might be right, that she’d be cast aside like one of Henry’s barren queens.
She was getting no younger, and upon Henry’s death she’d lost the protection of the English crown. If she didn’t secure her future soon with Gilbert’s child…
Even now she felt her authority slipping. Her own servants looked at her with pity instead of fear. The English soldiers were not so quick of late to come at her beck and call. Gilbert was away far too frequently on the queen’s business, and though the Scots court was not the den of debauchery that King Henry’s had been, Mavis wondered what tempting doxies lurked there. Then there had been the nasty surprise at the fair, which had caught Mavis completely off-guard, awakening her to an even more imminent threat.
Mavis’s belly cramped. She winced, knowing she’d have to attend to her body’s needs soon. But she knew she wouldn’t sleep another wink until she decided what to do about that damned goldsmith, the conniving wench who’d managed to claim sanctuary in the old church.
If ’twere up to Mavis, there would be no more sanctuary. Henry had always felt the Pope held too much power, and Mavis agreed, though ’twas heresy here to speak of it. One day, perhaps, all that would change, but until then she’d have to abide by the dictates of the church, which meant that for forty days, no matter how much Mavis wanted to throttle the life out of the wicked trull who’d crossed her, she was untouchable.
But Mavis couldn’t afford forty days. Every hour the urchin lingered in Selkirk felt like an hour plucked from Mavis’s future. And now that Gilbert was away…
She pursed her lips in thought.
The wench might be untouchable, but perhaps she wasn’t unreachable. Perhaps, Mavis mused, managing a weak smile despite the spasm snaking through her belly, there was a way to make the miserable whelp see the error of her ways.
“Shite!” Rane hissed, making Father Conan wince. “Sorry.”
“Who is it?” the Father asked. “Can ye see?”
Rane scanned the furthest turn of the road, where the rising sun crested the horizon to be immediately swallowed by a bank of gray clouds. They were definitely coming this way—a retinue of lords, ladies, men-at-arms, maids—dressed for Mass.
“The Frasers. And Lady Mavis.”
“Mavis?” The Father squinted with displeasure. “Shite,” he echoed under his breath. “What does she want?”
Rane spit into the dirt. “Florie.”
The priest straightened, as much as his bent back would allow. “She’s in sanctuary. She cannot be taken.”
“Nae. But now that Gilbert’s away, nothin’ would please Mavis more than to force a confession from her.”
The Father exhaled, his breath making a thin cloud on the chill air. “What will ye tell the lass?”
Rane sniffed. Last night his loyalties had been wrenched between his allegiance to his lord and his vow to Florie. But with the coming of Lady Mavis this morn in force, the balance shifted. ’Twas an underhanded attack, blatantly cruel and utterly ruthless.
“I’ll tell her to be strong.” As an afterthought he added, “And silent.”
“And what will ye tell your lord when he returns?” Father Conan asked gently.
Rane narrowed his eyes at the distant mustard-colored pennants drooping in the damp morn. What could he tell Lord Gilbert? That he questioned his own loyalty?
Rane glanced sharply at the priest. What was he babbling about? Aye, he’d sworn lifelong fealty to Gilbert. But Florie had no claim upon him. She wanted his protection, not his heart.
Still, the priest’s words were impossible to forget, and he pondered them all the way back to the church.
Rane prepared Florie for the ordeal as best he could. Predictably, when he told her the news, she thrust out her chin at a rebellious angle. But Rane knew her moods well enough now to recognize the subtle fear behind her feigned bravado.
“I won’t have them starin’ at me like I’m a two-headed ox,” she declared. “I’ll wait in the vestry.”
“Nae. Ye must stay at the fridstool.”
Frustration hardened her features. “Stay here. Drink this. Hold still. Rane, ye’re not my master. I’m not some grovelin’ hound to do your—”
He unpinned his cloak and whirled it about her shoulders, pulling the hood well over her face, muffling the remainder of her words.
“There,” he said. “Now they can’t stare. But heed my words, ye must remain on this spot. If Lady Mavis suspects ye’ve fled, she’ll send her men to look for ye,” he warned her. “Better ye sit where ye belong than have them drag ye, kickin’ and shriekin’, through the nave.”
He didn’t want to frighten her, but he doubted the men would hesitate to lug Florie forcibly out of sanctuary at Mavis’s imperious command.
She sulked, folding the cloak about her until nothing was visible but the tip of her stubborn chin. “If she dares utter a word about—”
His hand shot out to snag the folds of the cloak beneath her chin in one fist, commanding her attention. “Heed me well,” he told her sternly. “Ye’ll say nothin’. Ye’ll not speak. Ye’ll not whisper. Ye’ll not… hiccough.”
Her fingers scrabbled at his wrist, trying to pry him loose. “And ye’ll not command me.”
“Thor’s thunder, lass!” he hissed, releasing her. “I tell ye this for your safety.” He sniffed, straightening the wrinkles his fist had left in the cloak, softening his tone. Why could he not be his normal charming self with her? Maybe because he cared too much what happened to her. “Promise me, Florie. Promise me ye’ll be silent for once.”
“Ye’re a fine one to speak o’ promises,” she muttered.
He supposed he deserved that. And he supposed, as usual, Florie would do as she willed. With a sigh of defeat, he turned to go.
“Wait!” she said. “Will ye… will ye stay here?” she asked, trying to sound indifferent but failing.
Her sudden vulnerability caught at his heart. “I have somethin’ to attend to. But fear not, wee dove,” he said. “I won’t let them have ye. I swear it.”
Then, on impulse, he leaned forward, peeling back the hood of the cloak to press a light kiss to her forehead. ’Twas nothing indeed, only a tender gesture of comfort, and yet it tempted him to so much more. Her skin was fragrant and soft and warm, and he had no trouble imagining brushing his lips across more of it. She might not remember their kiss before, but he could think of nothing else. Only with great reluctance did he withdraw, tugging the hood forward over her face again.
He joined the Father, who awaited the arrival of his unwelcome guests at the door. Glancing back at the little felon huddled upon the fridstool, Rane was struck again by how small she seemed, swallowed up by his cloak. Small and defenseless.
“Pray, Father, don’t under any circumstances let them take her from this place,” Rane said.
The priest frowned. “And where will ye go?”
Rane narrowed his eyes slyly. “I suspect there’s a deer in the forest who’d like nothin’ better than to serve as supper for a certain man o’ God and a fugitive in sanctuary.”
Father Conan gasped. “Ye’d… poach? On the Sabbath? Right under Lady Mavis’s nose?”
Rane’s smile was grim. “Can ye think of a more opportune time? The entire Fraser household will be held captive here till the end o’ Mass.” He propped his quiver and bow in a shadowed corner of the narthex, within easy reach when he decided to slip out of the church. “Just make certain your sermon is… sufficiently thorough.”
The old priest tried to look stern, but amusement stole into the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. “Rane, lad,” he confided, “I’d recite the entire Gospel for a bite o’ roast venison.”
Rane’s kiss meant nothing, Florie told herself. ’Twas only a brotherly gesture, meant to lend comfort. She was no fool. Besides, she was vexed with him, wasn’t she? He still hadn’t addressed the matter of his vow. And yet her forehead tingled with the touch of his lips, and her heart raced as she inhaled the familiar rosemary scent of his cloak.
No one had kissed her like that—softly, tenderly—since her mother died. Oh, aye, men had made advances, usually when they were rutting drunk, but she’d never allowed a man to touch her. Wat, who would have fondled any willing lass, quickly learned how unwilling Florie was. Even her foster father, occasionally mistaking Florie for his lost wife, exhibited no more than a sort of pathetic lust, which was easy to fend off.
But Rane was different. He withheld nothing from her—neither his touch nor his emotions. He seemed to live life more fully, embracing it with body and heart. And for Florie, whose world was the narrow sphere of a goldsmith’s shop, Rane offered a taste of adventure.
Lord, she thought, tucking her lip between her teeth, sometimes she longed to take that taste.
But that way lay ruin. She knew better than to let her emotions lead her actions. Every merchant knew the importance of keeping one’s wits firmly engaged in any transaction. Her foster father’s heartsick decline had proved the wisdom of that advice.
And yet a voice inside her, one that had been silent for years, whispered, Aye, Florie, aye.
Or maybe ’twas only the curious whisperings of the Fraser household, now filing into the church. One by one, they stopped and stared, hissing behind their hands and into one another’s ears as she withdrew further into Rane’s concealing cloak.
For Florie, accustomed to toiling in quiet obscurity at the back of her father’s workshop, being on public display was more than unsettling. Before this swarm of murmuring strangers, she felt utterly naked. ’Twas an interminable ordeal of humiliation and disgrace.
“If only she’d confess her crime and surrender the piece,” said a woman at the back of the babbling crowd, “she might save her soul.”
Florie had met the lady only once, but Mavis’s strident drawl was unmistakable. She didn’t dare look, but she knew the lady would be wagging her beringed finger, her painted lips pursed in false compassion.
“Wherever are ye keepin’ her, Father?” Lady Mavis inquired with false concern. “Where is the poor, misguided wench?”
Florie squeezed her eyes shut as she felt the suffocating press of the crowd. Don’t speak, Rane had said. Don’t speak.
“Gads!” Lady Mavis remarked in a loud whisper. “This is a rat’s nest of a church, isn’t it, my ladies? It must be crawlin’ with vermin at night. I couldn’t stay here a single day, let alone forty.” She clucked her tongue. “Why would the miserable wretch abide in such filth, dyin’ a slow death, when she could fall into the lovin’ arms o’ God with a simple confession?”
Florie bit her tongue. How could Rane expect her to be silent? Maybe he intended to speak in her defense. From the shadows of the hood, she scanned the back wall of the church where the archer had retreated. He was nowhere to be seen.
“Father Conan,” Mavis inquired, “where have ye put the hapless wench?”
The Father’s voice was laced with mild impatience at the stupid question. “On the fridstool, my lady, the seat o’ refuge?”
Suddenly, Lady Mavis drew in an enormous gasp that seemed to suck all the air from the sanctuary. “Why, there she is, the miserable darlin’.”
Florie sti
ffened.
Silent. She had promised to be silent.
Mavis widened her eyes at Florie, clasping a hand to her breast in a counterfeit show of sympathy. “Ach, sweetin’, ye look half-dead already. Will ye not do the right thing and surrender to God’s wi—”
“Introibo ad altare Dei,” Father Conan chimed in loudly from the altar, effectively silencing Lady Mavis with the beginning of the Mass.
As soon as the congregation’s attention focused on the priest, Florie breathed a relieved sigh. Soon, soothing syllables of Latin wound around the nave, and she let her hooded glance drift along the faces in the crowd until it lit again upon the figure of Lady Mavis.
The lady might have been pretty once, Florie decided, fair of skin and even-featured, just plump enough to be considered ripe. She was dressed with keen taste in garments of richly embroidered ocher velvet, which set off her bright gold hair. The gilt pendant and rings she wore, though neither excessive nor flamboyant, were expensive.
Yet nothing about the lady was pretty anymore. She appeared to have been born into a world that was a grand disillusionment to her, for resentment was etched into every feature. Her mouth was set in a permanent pout, as if nothing could ever please her, as if life had been an enormous disappointment and those around her inadequate to the task of repairing her ills. Even now, beneath brows gathered like the dark clouds of a pending storm, she looked out of eyes as hard as jet.
Somehow, though Lady Mavis could not possibly see through the thick layers of wool, her eyes seemed to fix with hatred upon Florie, as if by dint of will she might expose her, condemn her, curse her soul.
Unnerved, Florie scrabbled beneath the cloak until her fingers closed around her precious girdle, as if to ensure it remained on her person. She would never give the lady her heirloom, never.
The Mass seemed to drone on and on, far longer than any she’d attended in Stirling. The stone fridstool was not nearly as comfortable as her cushioned workbench. Though her thigh felt much improved—Rane had assured her she’d be turning cartwheels down the nave in a fortnight—her hips ached from sitting. She shifted on the fridstool, flexing her feet back and forth beneath the cloak, trying to keep the blood flowing.