Sunset found Sorcha inside the quiet glass greenhouse, kneeling, holding a trowel, her eyes fixed on the grooved brown stems and lacy green leaves of a valerian plant. Yet her hands, clad in rough garden gloves, were idle. She had come here to be alone, to think, to plan.
She had to leave Monnmouth as soon as possible, yet her mind was petrified with fear—fear of the stranger who stalked her.
Who was he? How had he found her? Had he left the island or was he lurking out there, waiting for darkness to fall so he could do harm to one of the nuns? Or to her?
Yet what was the alternative?
A long, treacherous road filled with danger.
She shivered as the sun slid behind the naked branches of the trees and cast long, fingerlike shadows groping through the glass.
To get back to Beaumontagne, she had to somehow cross the rugged Highlands of Scotland to Edinburgh, take passage on a ship to a port in France or Spain, then travel into the mighty peaks of the Pyrenees, and from there to her home. In the normal run of things she would be beset by discomfort, robbers, and the onset of winter. Now, with a possible assassin chasing her, the difficulties doubled and tripled until she couldn’t imagine how she would take the first step.
She halfheartedly stirred the dirt around the valerian. She, who was so soft-hearted she could scarcely bear to pull a plant up by its roots, might have to use force against another human being.
She used to love twilight: the vivid blue sky turning to purple, the golden clouds, the anticipation of a quiet evening spent reading and in prayer. Now the skin between her shoulder blades prickled. She glanced nervously about her. And jumped.
A man stood behind her, his face pressed against one of the windowpanes. The glass distorted his nose. His breath painted the glass with frost, hiding his features, but his single brown eye was almost black.
She gasped. Her heart slammed against her chest.
Then he pulled back and waved frantically.
It was Arnou.
The dolt. He had startled her again. She glared at him. It almost seemed as if he were trying to spook her into leaving.
He gestured toward the door and, after a grudging hesitation, she nodded her permission.
Viciously she rammed the trowel into the ground and uprooted the valerian plant without a thought to its death.
Since the time she was a child, she had hated to be startled. Prince Rainger had known it, too, and taken pleasure in jumping out at her from behind closed doors or lurking beside the stairways and unexpectedly grabbing her skirt. The last time she’d seen him, he had drawled he was too old for such silliness; he had given her to understand he was too sophisticated to be bothered with her.
Too bad. There had been times when she had liked the rascally boy-prince. But she had despised the affected young man.
And she was sorry that Arnou and her return to Beaumontagne brought Rainger to mind, for Rainger’s death at the hands of the revolutionaries reminded her of her own possible fate. Royalty was supposed to face adversity with equanimity; Sorcha’s quaking dread proved her cowardice, and by the time Arnou had shambled around the greenhouse, opened the door, and made his way toward her, she had convinced herself she was unfit to rule.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle, it’s warm in here.” Arnou looked around at the glass and wood enclosure. “I like the smell. But it’s damp.”
He had a way of pointing out the obvious that was so annoying. “It is a greenhouse.”
“Are you busy?” Arnou sidled closer.
“As you see, I am.” She smiled tightly and flung the hapless greenery into a box. “I gather the valerian. Sister Rebecca dries the roots for a sleeping draught.”
“Oh.” He stared at the plant. “That little thing will do that?”
“In the right hands, it’s very potent.”
“Oh,” he repeated. Lowering his voice, he said, “I have a question. Is it always so terrifying here?”
“Here?” She blinked at him in astonishment. “At the convent?”
“Oui. Because I don’t like it when a man sets fires and digs a hole and puts gunpowder in the bottom and tries to light it.” Arnou’s one eye got big and round. “You’re only an unworldly woman, but I can tell you a man who does things like that is the kind of man who could try to hurt somebody!”
“I suspected that,” she said dryly.
“The thing is, I don’t like staying here.” He moved his shoulders uncomfortably. “It makes me wonder when a knife will slip into my back. So I was wondering—can I leave?”
He was such a coward! She despised cowards…as she despised herself. “You should ask Mother Brigette, not me.”
“She’s strict. She scares me.”
“Would you like me to ask for you?” The darkness was falling fast, but being with Arnou made her feel brave by comparison.
“I was hoping you would offer. You talk to her so freely!”
“Actually, she’s very kind,” Sorcha assured him.
Arnou looked unconvinced. “How soon can I go?”
“Mother Brigette will raise the flag to signal Mr. MacLaren. You’ll have to wait until he arrives tomorrow or the next day—”
“I can’t wait that long. That man, the one who set your room on fire—he’s going to do something else. Something worse. I’m scared. I don’t want to be here.” Arnou’s voice trembled and he talked faster and faster. “I have my boat—”
“Your boat?” Her suspicion of Arnou leaped to life.
“Yes, the one you got for me.” He knit his brows as if surprised she didn’t comprehend.
She relaxed. How foolish, to be dubious of this simple soul!
“I can row to the mainland tomorrow morning. If I put my back into it, it’ll only take an hour or two,” he said. “Then I’ll be away from here. I want to go back to Burgundy, where everyone knows everyone else and no one does crazy things like set fires and use gunpowder to kill people.”
“To Burgundy…” In France. She needed to go to France. “It’s a very long way.”
“I’ll get across Scotland and take a ship.”
“You’re going to get across Scotland?” She marveled at him—he spoke so casually, as if it were a ride in the woods. “How?”
“Walk. Catch a ride when I can. Farmers go to market and they don’t care if I ride along.”
She pressed him for information. “Aren’t you afraid of robbers?”
“No one tries to rob me.” He spread his broad hands wide. “I don’t have anything.”
Yes, and his clothes and demeanor made his poverty obvious. Sister Margaret had dug deep in the convent’s stash of clothes and located a pair of brown breeches, patched at the knee, but she’d been unable to find anything that fit his big chest and shoulders. So she’d stitched together a tunic of sturdy wool cut from an old brown blanket. All the nuns took turns knitting a pair of black hose tall enough to fit his long shanks. Sister Margaret had insisted he tie a clean rag around his face. With his clogs to complete the outfit, he looked the picture of a sturdy peasant.
Sturdy…. Arnou was big, strong, with long arms—the kind of man no fool would attack without a pistol or a gang, and even then he would make trouble. His size probably contributed to his safety more than his poverty.
“I don’t want to go alone.” He sighed and shuffled his feet. “I like to talk, and I hate it when there’s no one to listen.”
It was almost completely dark. She should go in. Yet she stood limply holding the trowel, wondering how and when the idea of traveling with Arnou had occurred to her.
“You could come with me.” He spoke so softly, so hypnotically, he might have been a voice in her mind. “I would protect you.”
“Why would I leave the convent?” How odd to think that Arnou, of all people, could guard her from harm. Yet right now, she almost believed it.
“Why would you want to stay? Someone’s after you here.” His deep velvet tone seduced her into a feeling of security. “It would be safer on the road. For you. For everyone. You should go.”
Was he giving her advice? And in such a tone? Jerking her head up, she stared searchingly at him. She couldn’t see the details of his face, but something about the way he stood…He seemed to have a natural arrogance, a balance and a build natural to a fencer or a lord. Was he more than the humble fisherman he appeared?
“This wool is itchy. I wish I had a different shirt.” With a whimper, he stared down at his chest and scratched heartily. “Do you have clothes left after the fire? Because I need a cloak for travel and maybe I could have yours. I’m scared of this place. When will you talk to Mother Brigette for me?”
“I’ll talk to her after matins.” Sorcha stripped off her gloves and prepared to dash toward the dining hall.
“Merci, Mademoiselle.” He grinned engagingly.
She saw a flash of strong white teeth.
He walked to the door.
Almost without her volition, she called, “If I went with you, you’d have to swear with your hand on the Bible that you’d treat me honorably and do all in your power to protect me.”
“I’ll swear, of course.” He sounded bewildered and hurt by her suspicions. “But I don’t hurt girls and I would never let a companion come to harm.”
“Good.” Perhaps her courage would rise in his company. “In the morning, I’ll let you know if I decide to join you.”
With her hands folded on the desk before her, Mother Brigette listened quietly as Sorcha proposed her plan. When Sorcha was finished, Mother Brigette studied the princess who had been her charge for so many years. She had seen her grow from an adolescent who cowered at a kind reprimand to this beautiful young woman, untried by life. The years of simple living had given Sorcha a serenity that glowed like pure candle flame beneath her pale complexion. Her beautiful copper-colored hair hung in a thick braid down her back, and her blue eyes showed no awareness of self. Mother Brigette and the other nuns had raised Sorcha to be one of those rare and noble beings, an innocent who saw the best in everyone.
Perhaps, knowing what Mother Brigette knew of the world and of Sorcha’s eventual fate, that had been a mistake. But Sorcha’s grandmother had been her first teacher, and she had added the necessary reason and intelligence.
Unfortunately, the princess was completely untested and now…well, now she would have a trial by fire. Mother Brigette had no way of foretelling what would happen to her, but she could protect Sorcha on her first steps into the world.
“So you wish to cross the channel and travel to France with Arnou the fisherman,” Mother Brigette said. “Whose idea was this?”
“It was mine.” Sorcha sat in the hard chair, her feet firmly on the floor, her chin lifted as if proud to point out her own bravery.
“I see. How intelligent of you to take the initiative.”
“Yes.” Sorcha smiled, a shy, proud smile that Mother Brigette hated to subdue.
But she would. “You have to go, it’s true. But while I admire your ingenuity, I have formulated a different plan.”
Sorcha’s pleasure faded.
Mother Brigette rose from her seat, came around to Sorcha, and stood over her. She needed to exert her authority in this, the most perilous moment of Sorcha’s life. “Yesterday after you rescued the boat, God told me you must go at once.” In fact, as soon as Mother Brigette had seen Arnou, seen the way he watched Sorcha, she had realized that the princess must leave as swiftly and as quietly as possible. “After the fire in your cell, I raised a special flag to signal Mr. MacLaren. He arrived this afternoon.”
“This afternoon? I never saw him!”
“Years ago, not long after you first arrived on Monnmouth, I gave Mr. MacLaren special instructions. If I raised the scarlet flag, he was to come as quickly as possible and land surreptitiously on the far side of the island. He did so and has remained hidden since.” Mother Brigette raised her voice. “Sister Margaret, would you come in here?”
Sister Margaret bustled in, a variety of freshly washed and ironed clothes draped across her arm. She and Mother Brigette exchanged a smile. “Here we are, Sorcha. We’ll have you ready to go in no time.” Pulling Sorcha to her feet, Sister Margaret pushed her behind the screen. “Strip down and I’ll help you with your clothes.”
“I can dress myself,” Sorcha protested.
“You’ll need help with this,” Sister Margaret answered.
Indeed she would. “As soon as Sister Margaret has dressed you, Mr. MacLaren is going to row you across to the mainland,” Mother Brigette said.
“In the dark? But it’s dangerous.”
“He is very skilled.”
“I don’t understand. This is happening so fast.” Panic edged Sorcha’s voice.
Mother Brigette and Sister Margaret exchanged measured glances. In a stern voice, Mother Brigette said, “It is happening at exactly the rate at which God wills it.”
Sorcha didn’t reply. Either she couldn’t speak or she refused to agree.
Yes, the child had her moments of rebellion. Perhaps, in the trials that faced her, that was all to the good.
“It’s necessary you leave at once. Whoever is following you must be thrown off the trail.” Mother Brigette waited, but still Sorcha didn’t agree. Even now, the princess didn’t truly understand her peril. “Tomorrow morning before dawn you’ll take the horse MacLaren gives you and ride with his escort as far as Hameldone, two days’ hard ride. From there”—Mother Brigette could scarcely bear to say the words—“you’ll make your own way to Edinburgh and a ship.”
“Alone?” Sorcha’s voice squeaked a little.
“Yes. Alone.” If only Sorcha knew how much Mother Brigette feared for her! “I have no one to send with you. That’s why desperate measures are necessary.”
“What desperate measures?”
Sister Margaret stepped behind the screen, Sorcha’s costume in hand.
Mother Brigette waited, half smiling.
“What’s that?” Sorcha’s horror was audible. “You want me to wear that?”
“Don’t worry, it’ll fit,” Sister Margaret said serenely. “Put your arm in here.”
“But I don’t understand,” Sorcha protested. “This is absurd. No one will believe this!”
“People believe what they see.” Mother Brigette tucked her hands in her sleeves and listened to the rustles and whispered protests.
This was not the way she would have chosen to send Sorcha out into the world, but it was the only way. Mother Brigette’s life had required that she make a study of men, asking questions, probing their minds and their hearts, listening to the tones of their voices, and weighing their truths.
Arnou was lying. She didn’t know why, but he was not who he said he was—and that made him dangerous. Dangerous to Sorcha.
Unfortunately, Mother Brigette also judged Mr. MacLaren to be an inferior implement. He brought them supplies, but only because he made a good profit selling their herbs at market. He did as she commanded, but only out of superstitious fears involving papists and holy women and the evil eye. And she would not now use him if she had any other method to get Sorcha away from here. Away from the threat Arnou posed. Away from the threat posed by Sorcha’s title and fortune.
When Mother Brigette judged Sorcha had gotten over her shock at her new wardrobe, she continued, “You’ll have a small bag of coins on a belt tied around your waist. Never dip into this fund except in the direst of emergencies. I cannot emphasize that enough. You must have money to get home, and that will cover your passage.” She subdued her fierceness and gently reminded Sorcha of her obligations to the nuns who had cared for her for so long. “I expect that when you’ve reached your destination, you’ll wish to reimburse the convent.”
“Well. Yes. Of course. But why can’t Arnou travel with me? He wishes to leave the convent. He’s strong. He’ll frighten off attackers.”
“He definitely would frighten off attackers, but Arnou is not bright. You realize that.”
“I have enough intelligence for both of us.” Sorcha sounded confident in that.
She was right. She had intelligence. But her argument proved how unworldly she was. “That you do. But he wouldn’t understand the reason for your garments and I fear in his simplemindedness”—that simplemindedness she found so suspicious—“he would reveal the truth.”
“I don’t understand the reason for these garments!”
“Yes, you do.” Mother Brigette grew anxious to see the results of Sister Margaret’s handiwork. Would this camouflage be as successful as she hoped?
“All right.” Sorcha sounded sulky. “Perhaps I do, but this is so…I look so…”
It was time to ignore the protests. “I’m also sending a saddlebag filled with medicinal herbs. You can sell the herbs as you need for food or use them in case of illness. You’re leaving on the brink of winter, the worst time of the year for traveling, and while I hope that lessens the chance of robbery, I’m afraid you’ll suffer days of misery and cold.”
“Misery and cold I can endure, but this!” Sorcha’s voice went from dismayed to huffy.
“’Twill be charming,” Sister Margaret said.
Mother Brigette paced across the room, then stopped in her tracks. Pacing was a waste of time and energy. Yet she now wished she’d spent less time encouraging Sorcha’s artlessness and more time warning her about the ways of the world. She had so much she wanted to say, but it was too late for regrets, so she chose her words carefully. “Travel in secret and in shadow.”
“I understand.” Sorcha sounded patient. “I remember Godfrey’s warning about the assassins. I remember the fire in my cell.”
“Be strong in your mind,” Sister Margaret said.
“Keep your knife sharp and utilize all your skills. Fix your mind on the goal of returning to Beaumontagne and let nothing turn you aside,” Mother Brigette added.
“I’m unproven, but not without resources.” Sorcha seemed to understand their concerns and bent her talents to reassure them. “At the bedrock of my being I have my grandmother’s teachings. In addition, I’ve lived the last years with the strongest, kindest, most assiduous women in the world.”
Yet not the most wary. But Mother Brigette said nothing of that. “Most important, remember my tale of my maid Fabienne, and trust no man with your truths.”
“But Mother Brigette, I must trust the man who has proved faithful and kind or I’ll believe in no man and in nothing.” Sorcha sounded incredulous and perturbed. “I can’t be like that. That would be a sin in itself.”
“Dying before you reach the end of your journey would be a sin,” Mother Brigette said sternly. “Anything else is forgivable.”
“She’s ready.” Sister Margaret stepped out, beaming. “I know I suffer from vanity, but I also know I’ve done a marvelous job.”
“Come, Sorcha. Let me see you.” Mother Brigette waited with hope and anticipation.
Sorcha stepped out from behind the screen, her cheeks rosy with mortification, her head bent, her fists clenched at her side.
Mother Brigette circled her, examining every detail.
Sister Margaret had wrapped Sorcha’s waist in a length of cotton. She’d dressed Sorcha in a rough brown shirt, loose wool breeches held up with rope suspenders, a black cloak that hung to her knees, and three pairs of socks inside black boots. Her brown, wide-brimmed hat had wool earflaps and tied under her chin.
Mother Brigette smiled gently at Sister Margaret. “Thank you, Sister, you’ve done a marvelous job. Sorcha is, in every way, a convincing young man.”