The Chase

  "Yer doublet and knickers there."

  Blake glanced down at his gold doublet and braies with dismay. Both were new. He supposed he'd thought to impress his bride-to-be with the fine new outfit. " 'Tis a new doublet," he protested. " 'Tis but a few weeks old."

  Angus Dunbar shrugged. " 'Tis a fair trade for me colors." He and the other men laughed again.

  Sighing, Blake reluctantly handed the plaid to Little George, who had followed him back to the table, then began working at removing his clothes.

  "He be bigger than he first looked," one of the men commented as Blake shrugged out of his doublet and tunic to stand bare-chested before them.

  Glancing at the man, Blake recognized him as the older man on the wall who had said he favored his father in looks. It seemed some of the men who had lined the wall had followed them inside, though he had not noticed.

  "Hmm," was all the Dunbar said. Taking the vestments from Blake, he handed them to one of the men to hold and quickly shrugged out of his own shirt. Tossing the stained and soiled top to his would-be son-in-law, he took the tunic back and tugged it on.

  Blake caught the shirt and nearly groaned aloud at the smell coming from it. He would guess it had not been washed since being donned. Probably some three years ago, he guessed, then braced his shoulders and tugged the shirt on before turning his attention to removing the braies and hose he still wore.

  "A mite tight, but no' a bad fit."

  Blake glanced at Angus Dunbar as the older man finished doing up the doublet over the tunic. His eyes widened as he saw the truth of the words. It seemed his would-be father-in-law was of a size with himself.

  "Quit yer gawkin' and give me the braies, lad. My arse is near freezin'."

  Realizing he had been staring at the older man, Blake turned his attention back to removing the rest of his clothes. He gave them up to Laird Angus, then took the plaid back from Little George and began wrapping it about his waist.

  "What the devil be ye doin'?"

  Blake glanced up to see a mixture of dismay and disgust on Angus Dunbar's face.

  "Ye doona wear a plaid like that, ye great gowkie! Ye insult me plaid in the wearin'." Finished tying the braies, he reached out and grabbed one end of the cloth. He tugged it from Blake's hold, then dropped it on the floor and knelt to fold it in pleats. Blake watched closely, amazed at the speed the man displayed in the action and wondering if he would be able to replicate it himself. Doubtful, but if he did, it certainly would not be with the same speed.

  "There!" The Dunbar sat up straight and looked up at him. "Lay on it."

  "Lay on it?" Blake asked with confusion.

  "Aye. Lay on it."

  Blake gaped. "Surely you jest?"

  "Lay on the demn thing!" the older man roared impatiently.

  Blake muttered under his breath and lowered himself to the ground to lay atop the pleated plaid. As soon as he had, the laird began tugging at the material. A mere second or so later, he stood and gestured for Blake to rise as well, then finished fitting the plaid about him.

  "There." He peered over his handiwork, then shook his head. "I fear it doesna look as good on ye as it does on me," he announced, and there were mutters of agreement all around. "Ye look like a Sassenach atryin' to look like a Scot. Ah, well ..." Shrugging, he glanced down at the new clothes he wore. "I daresay I suit your clothes much better. What diya be thinkin', lads?" Holding out his arms, he turned in a circle to model the outfit. "Think ye I'll be impressin' Lady Iliana's mother, the Lady Wildwood?"

  There was a rumble of approval, then Angus Dunbar turned to take in Blake's sorrowful expression. "Doona fash yerself over it, Sassenach. Ye have enough on yer plate just now. Go fetch yer bride." He grinned, some of his grimness falling away as he added, "If ye can."

  Blake stiffened, his face flushing at the chuckles the last three words caused. He was not used to being the butt of someone else's humor and did not care for it, but there was little he could do about it at that moment, so he whirled on his heel and strode toward the door, Little George at his back.

  Angus Dunbar pursed his lips and watched Blake stride away. He waited until the men had left the keep, then moved back to his seat and took a long swallow of ale as he glanced around at his men. His gaze finally settled on Gavin, one of his finest fighters and most trustworthy of men. He called the soldier to his side.

  "Aye, me laird?"

  "Take two men and follow them, lad," he instructed. "The young Sherwell's just fool enough to get hisself killed, and then his fool English father and the English king would blame us. See he finds his way there without gettin' lost."

  Chapter Two

  "I cannot take it! I simply cannot!" Lady Elizabeth Worley--abbess of St. Simmian's--snapped the words with frustration as she dropped onto the cushioned seat behind her magnificent oak desk.

  Biting her lip anxiously, Sister Blanche grabbed up a piece of parchment and fanned the woman's face as she searched her mind for the correct words to calm her superior. Lady Elizabeth's short temper was well known, as was her tendency toward precipitous action when she lost that temper. It was always best to soothe her if one could.

  "Forbear, Mother, we must forbear," she said at last, adding hopefully, "God has seen fit to trial us thusly and he would not trial us with more than we could bear."

  "Poppycock!" Elizabeth waved her efforts away with irritation. The abbess was an Englishwoman through and through. She had become a nun to avoid marriage to a particularly odious English nobleman over twenty years earlier. Unfortunately, the nunnery was a popular escape for women unhappy with their marital options, and there had been few positions in England at the time that she had not felt beneath her. Hence she had ended up an English abbess in a nunnery in the center of savage Scotland. 'Twas better than a position as a mere sister in an English abbey, or so she had thought back then. She no longer thought so. The speech of these heathens grated on her nerves like sand in her slippers. Lady Elizabeth was heartily sick of their barbarous ways and language. After twenty years of living here, she was fresh out of the patience needed to deal with the Scottish female who now sought sanctuary, and she would in no way believe it was the will of God that she should.

  " 'Twas by no will of God Seonaid Dunbar was sent here." She slammed one hand flat on her desktop. " 'Twas the devil!"

  Sister Blanche's eyes widened, her worry deepening. "Oh, surely not!"

  "Aye." The abbess nodded firmly. "She is the spawn of the devil, I tell you. Sent to trifle with our goodness and lead us unto temptation."

  "Temptation?" Sister Blanche didn't bother to hide her doubt.

  "Aye. To break one of the commandments."

  "Which of the ten commandments, my lady?"

  "Thou shalt not kill."

  Blanche's jaw dropped, her eyes near popping out of her head. "Oh, sweet Jesu! You should not speak so!"

  " 'Tis true." The abbess smiled grimly at the fear and anxiety in the other woman's face. "I would delight in spilling her blood."

  "My lady!"

  "Aye, well ..." Lady Elizabeth sighed. "Let us just hope her Englishman follows quickly and saves me from my sinful thoughts." Reaching into her desk, she searched out a skin of whiskey as she added in a mutter, " 'ere I actually do the deed."

  Sister Blanche frowned at the sight of the abbess partaking of spirits. "She will not go to her betrothed willingly. 'Tis why she is here."

  "Nay, but he can fetch her out."

  "Fetch her? But how? 'Tis a house of God. Men are not allowed here."

  The abbess took a large swig of whiskey, then recapped the skin before commenting dryly, "Men often do things they are not allowed to do."

  "Aye, but the gate is metal and always barred. And the wall--He will not be able to breach--"

  "You will unbar it."

  "W-what?" Blanche stammered.

  "When they are spotted coming, you will unbar the door."

  "I? But--" Blanche peered at her, at a loss. She simply could not be
lieve what she was hearing. "But you promised Lady Seonaid sanctuary. She paid a--"

  "She did not pay nearly enough. The coins she gave may have covered what she broke on her first day here, but no more."

  "Surely you exaggerate, my lady," Blanche argued quickly. " 'Tis true she overset one or two things at first, but that was because her sword knocked them as she passed. Now you have taken it away, she has broken hardly a thing."

  "I would not call Sister Meredith's foot, 'hardly a thing.' "

  Blanche grimaced at the reminder of poor Sister Meredith's foot. "Oh, aye, but Lady Seonaid never meant to harm Sister Meredith. It was an accident."

  "Everything is an accident with Lady Seonaid." Lady Elizabeth grimaced her disgust.

  Unfortunately, it was true. Lady Seonaid did seem particularly accident-prone, so Sister Blanche tried a different approach. "She has a good heart, Mother. 'Tis just she is so uncomely tall, and not very comfortable with it, and having grown up in the company of her father and brother she is unsure in a female environment."

  "I swear by my faith in the holy God, Blanche, you would have a kind word and a pint of sympathy for a viper," she muttered, then glared at the woman. "You have my instructions, Sister. When the Englishman is seen to be approaching, you will send the workers from the gardens. Once everyone is indoors, you are to unbar the gate."

  "But--"

  "Do not 'but' me, Blanche! I have given you your orders and you shall carry them out, else I will send you back to England in disgrace."

  Blanche went still. She too was an Englishwoman, though she had joined the order on a calling, not simply to escape an unpleasant marriage. As the daughter of a lesser baron, she had not been given a choice of where to serve her Lord. She had been sent to Scotland because it was where she had been needed. Blanche had served her Lord and the people here as well as she was able. Unlike the abbess, she found the Scots colorful and brave and had made many friends among the other sisters, most of whom were Scottish. She had no wish to return to her family in England in disgrace. However, neither did she wish to betray Lady Seonaid. Despite the woman's rough ways and clumsiness, Blanche found she liked her. In her opinion, there was a certain feistiness and honor about Seonaid Dunbar she found admirable. The Scottish maiden also had a rough charm and good sense of humor.

  Perhaps there was a way to do as she was ordered without betraying the woman.

  "Diya hear that?"

  Aeldra paused and cocked her head. "Someone's aweepin'."

  "Hmmm." Moving forward, Seonaid followed the soft sobs until she reached the chapel door. She paused briefly, hesitant to intrude, but found she couldn't just ignore the heartrending sounds. Heaving a sigh, she opened the door.

  The chapel was where all the nuns and lay sisters met to recite Matins and Lauds, which Seonaid had sat through dutifully for two weeks. Five hours a day of prayer in this huge cave of a room lit only by an array of candles on the altar and along the side walls. The amount of candles used would have lit up the average chamber to the brightness of daylight, but only ever seemed to give the chapel a soft glow.

  'Twas probably a good thing, Seonaid thought, averting her eyes from the walls as she had since the first time she had entered and dared to glance at them in the dim light. From the brief perusal, she knew she would not wish for better lighting to look at the tapestries. They were all religious in nature, depictions of Christ and several saints. Unfortunately, they seemed to portray the more gruesome aspects of their lives or, more to the point, their deaths. There was the crucifixion of Jesus, the beheading of Saint Barbara, the massacre of Saint Ursula along with 11,000 virgins, and a portrayal of Saint Catherine being broken on the wheel.

  The making of the tapestries was what the sisters occupied themselves with while not praying. Seonaid knew they were presently working on a piece depicting the stoning of Saint Stephen. Finished with the most gruesome martyrings of the female saints, it seemed they were moving on to the men.

  Ah, well, 'twas not her concern, she supposed; then her eyes widened in surprise as she finally spied the woman kneeling before the altar. She had expected it to be one of the sisters, weeping over a punishment by the abbess, but instead it was the only other woman presently seeking sanctuary besides Aeldra and herself. Lady Helen. The woman was English and had arrived just the evening before. Seonaid had heard little about her. No one had told her why Lady Helen sought sanctuary, but she suspected it was something to do with a nasty, overbearing husband or some such thing. Had it just been an untenable marriage she was avoiding, the woman surely would have sought sanctuary in an English abbey rather than run all the way up here to the middle of Scotland.

  A nudge from behind told Seonaid she had tarried too long in the door and Aeldra was becoming impatient to see what was about. Seonaid stepped into the chapel, aware that the smaller woman followed as she walked up the center aisle toward the altar and the woman kneeling there.

  "How do you plan to get her out of the abbey?"

  Blake gave a shrug of unconcern. "The moment she sees me she will come out."

  "She will?" Rolfe sounded dubious.

  "Certainly."

  "I see." He pondered the idea briefly. "Then why ever did she flee to the abbey in the first place?"

  "She had yet to see me and had no idea what I looked like," Blake responded promptly.

  "Ah." Rolfe nodded. "So, as soon as she sees your fair visage--"

  "She shall drop to the ground like a ripe plum and prostrate herself at my feet."

  "Of course, she will," Rolfe agreed with amusement.

  "Women have always reacted with favor to my looks."

  "So I have heard."

  " 'Tis a curse, really."

  "Hmm. You have my sympathies," Rolfe said dryly, then added, "There is just one thing that concerns me."

  "What?"

  "How is she going to see your fair visage and be overcome? She will be within the abbey walls, and we without. Only holy men are allowed past the gate."

  Blake scowled. "I do not yet know. I have been thinking on it since leaving Dunbar Castle, but--" He shrugged before glancing at the man riding beside him. " 'Tisn't really my problem anyway. You are the one who was supposed to arrange everything. I was simply to travel to Dunbar for the execution."

  Rolfe's lips turned up in amusement. "An execution, is it?"

  "It might as well be."

  " 'Tis sure I am Amaury thought 'twas something similar he was traveling to as well," Rolfe said with a shrug. "Yet look how happy he and Emma are now."

  A reminiscent smile claimed Blake's mouth as he thought of his friend, Amaury de Aneford, his little wife, Emmalene, and their fond farewell to him. "Aye, 'tis happy enough he is. He was sure Emma would be a hag. Did you know?"

  "Nay."

  "Aye. He swore her first husband killed himself rather than go home and perform his duty."

  "Really?"

  Rolfe sounded irritated. Glancing at him sharply, Blake noted the tightness around his lips and reminded himself the man was little Emma's cousin. "Of course, that was afore he set eyes on her. Once he saw how pretty she was, he was fair relieved. Howbeit, that was Amaury and Emma, Lady Seonaid is hardly the same tankard of ale."

  Rolfe rolled his eyes. "You have not yet even met her."

  Blake shrugged. "She is a Scot. And a Dunbar," he added tightly. " 'Tis all I need to know."

  Gaze curious, Rolfe asked, "What caused the falling out your father had with Angus Dunbar? I understand they were as close as brothers at one time."

  Blake was silent for a moment, then admitted, "I am not sure. Father would never speak on it. Howbeit, it must have been a fair filthy deal, for he has, as far back as I can recall, called the man horrid names and slighted him at every turn."

  "Hmm." Rolfe stared at the trees they passed through, then shrugged his curiosity aside. "As to gaining your bride from the abbey, mayhap Bishop Wykeham could be of some assistance there."

  "What was that, my son?"
Catching mention of his name, the bishop urged his mount up between the two men and peered from one to the other expectantly.

  "Blake and I were just discussing how to get the girl out of the abbey. I thought mayhap you could aid in the endeavor?"

  "Hmmm." Bishop Wykeham's gentle face turned thoughtful as he considered the problem, then his bushy gray eyebrows rose and a wry smile came to his face, tugging upward at the wrinkles residing there. " 'Tis true that as a man of God, they would allow me in where the gates 'twould be barred to you. I suppose I could talk to the chit, but 'tis all I can do," he warned. "I cannot force her from her sanctuary."

  "Thank you, Bishop," Blake said, and wondered if he might yet escape the marriage. If he did, he would owe the little Scottish wench his thanks. Mayhap he could send her some bonbons, or a bolt of fabric.

  "There 'tis."

  Blake glanced up at Rolfe's announcement as they rode out of the trees. They were only about fifty yards from the stone wall surrounding the abbey. Tensing in the saddle, he nudged his horse and urged him forward. In the next few minutes he would either gain his bride or fail and continue to be a happy man. It was time to determine his future.

  Reaching the gate, Blake dismounted and moved swiftly to the bell pull. He was about to give it a tug when a crack between the door and the wall caught his attention. Frowning, he reached up and gave the wooden door a tentative nudge. It gave a squeal of protest but slid an inch open. Blake stilled, little currents of unease running up the back of his neck. This was not right, and it brought a grim frown to his face as he reached for his sword. "The door is unbarred."

  "What?" Rolfe dismounted to join him.

  "Nay." The bishop shook his head. "You must be mistaken, Blake. The gate is always barred. There are too many who seek sanctuary within to--" His words came to an abrupt halt when a gentle push from Rolfe sent the door sliding open a little farther. The prelate stared in amazement, then muttered with disgruntlement, "Well! That is not very secure."

  Blake pushed the door the rest of the way open. His gaze ran over the empty flower and herb gardens before turning to the building beyond. "Nay. 'Tis not safe at all."

  "Damn me!" The bishop scrambled off his own horse and joined the other two men peering through the opening.

  "What think you?" Rolfe asked. They all stared at the lush and flowering vegetation revealed.