Love Above All (13 page)

“My lady,” Royce went on, turning back to
her, “I think it wise to let your brothers continue to believe they
succeeded in drowning you. The time may come when the reappearance
of their supposedly murdered sister will provide a surprise that
will give us an advantage. Therefore, I suggest you travel in
disguise.”

“What a good idea. Shall I dress as one of
your squires?” Fionna asked. “Or, perhaps I ought to pose as a
man-at-arms in a helmet to cover my face?”

“Absolutely not!” Quentin shouted at her.
“You will never put on men’s clothing so long as I live!”

“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 obvious 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.”

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.