Free Passion's Exile by Glynnis Campbell

groaning as if gripped by pain.
    “Old Sir Fergus,” Wilham murmured obliviously, nodding toward the fluttering pennon. “Do ye think he’ll remember us?”
    “I doubt it,” Blade replied, watching as one of the nuns spoke with the lady. “The man’s mind is like a sieve.”
    “I recall from our last visit, however,” Wilham said, “that the old man keeps a fine cook. We’ll eat well anyway.”
    Blade grunted. The lady staggered along the path. Was she ill? Injured? Or simply weak with hunger?
    She was cradling her head in her hand when Wilham finally took notice. “What’s wrong with her ?” he whispered.
    “She hasn’t eaten since morn.”
    Wilham lifted a surprised brow, then flashed him a sly grin. “I knew ye’d been watchin’ her.”
    “I’ve been watchin’ everyone.”
    Blade wished he had time to knock the smug smile off his friend’s face, but they were at the house now, and de Murs’ steward greeted them.
    The man’s hearty welcome had scarcely spilled from his lips when one of the nuns hastened forward to whisper something in his ear. He nodded and clapped his hands for a maid, who immediately escorted the young lass and her falcon off inside the manor.
    Blade sighed impatiently, foiled by how easily she’d slipped from his vigil. His suspicions regarding her had grown since their encounter with the knights on the road. She’d been rattled when the men reined up, though the three seemed harmless enough. They’d told Father Peter they were on a mission to purchase arms at the Dunfermline fair. Why should they cause the lass such alarm?
    Unless…she feared they would recognize her.
    “What’s her name?” he asked Wilham suddenly as they entered the manor with the rest of the pilgrims. “Do ye know?”
    “Who? Our falconer?”
    He nodded. Wilham shrugged.
    “Where did she come from?” he pressed, but Wilham didn’t know that either.
    All at once, Wilham’s eyes widened. “Ye don’t think she’s the assassin?”
    “‘Tis possible.”
    “Ye’re jestin’.”
    “I hope I’m wrong,” he said. Blade didn’t like to think that such a seeming innocent was capable of such villainy, of so bloodthirsty a crime, any more than Wilham did. And yet, of all the pilgrims, the lovely and delicate wisp of a woman was so far the most suspicious.
    “Impossible,” Wilham said as they stepped into the cavernous great room of Sir Fergus’s manor. “That blushin’ flower is as sinless as a saint, or I’ll eat my trews.”
    Blade hoped Wilham was right. But the fact that she’d joined the pilgrimage unprepared, that she’d concealed herself from the riders, that she’d hurried upstairs before Sir Fergus could lay eyes on her, didn’t bode well for her innocence.
    As it turned out, Sir Fergus remembered neither Wilham nor Blade, though Blade had championed de Murs less than a year ago against the man’s greedy cousin who’d tried to lay claim to the manor. The old knight’s mind was as weak as his sword arm, but Blade had been amply paid for his defense of de Murs’ lands at the time, and the table Sir Fergus spread now for the pilgrims displayed that generosity as well.
    Unlike its owner, the manor was kept in good order. What the knight was lacking in wits, his servants made up for in hospitality. After Sir Fergus issued a faint welcome to the pilgrims, several pitchers of water were brought so the guests could wash the dust from their hands and faces. Then they were led to the enormous trestle table in the midst of the hall, where flagons of golden perry awaited to quench their thirst.
    Sconces brightened the great hall, whose heavy-beamed ceiling arched upward to double height and whose stone floor was laid with fresh rushes. The massive hearth at the end of the hall flickered with cheery flame, and the wooden screens concealing the buttery were painted with twining vines. Twin stairways spiraled up opposite sides of the hall, leading to half a dozen upper chambers.
    Blade