"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.