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The Quest. Lyn Stone
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“How long before we reach Baincroft, sir?” Ev asked him as they rode.
Henri shrugged. “Well, I know how long it takes to travel from Odun in the Highlands to Baincroft. My brother fetched his bride from near there last year and told me of the time involved. Judging by his journey and the maps I studied long ago, I think we must travel about half that distance. It depends upon how long it takes to find crossing at the Clyde. Our passage around the hills beyond will slow us down even more, however. Three more days is my guess,” he told Everand. “Mayhaps four.”
“There is a ferry north of Largsmuth,” Iana informed him. “We should reach that before tonight.”
“You have traveled this way before, then?”
“Aye, once,” she admitted, “though I have not been any farther east than Largsmuth.”
Henri rode on silently, questioning whether he had any right to ask more about her life and what had brought her to that village where Ev had found her. Thus far, she had not welcomed his curiosity and simply ignored him when he asked anything about her past.
“You must have lived near the Clyde when you were wed,” he said in an offhand way, excusing his prying, since he did not phrase it as a question.
“Nay,” she answered, not looking back at him.
“When you were a lass, then,” he guessed again.
She remained silent.
He smiled to himself. One more piece of the puzzle slipped into place. She was not Iana of Ayr, as she had told them. Ayr was a coastal town not far from where they had come ashore, if he recalled his maps aright. Her girlhood home was near the Firth of Clyde. She’d not denied it. And her grandfather’s Christian name had been Ian. She had let that slip when he was ill. Once he reached Baincroft, he would inquire if anyone there knew a nobleman named Ian who lived near the Clyde.
Why it seemed so important to find out exactly who Iana was, Henri could not say. Possibly because he could not abide a mystery. Then again, it might be because he desired her so fiercely and wanted to know just how available she was to him with regard to her station in life. Unworthy thoughts troubled him, so he dismissed them.
“What is the cost of crossing at Largsmuth?” he asked, determined not to indulge his prurient interest in her any further.
“A schilling, I believe. My bro…I cannot recall the exact price,” she snapped.
Henri smiled. Another slip. She had been about to say brother, he was certain of it. If her brother had been with her at that crossing, he must have been escorting her somewhere, likely to the man she would wed. Women had little cause to leave their homes, otherwise. So it was probable that she had traversed this route in reverse, in order to become a bride. Her husband had died, so she had told Ev. Why had her family not come for her if she had been widowed and left with nothing? Were they all dead?
It seemed that the more answers he obtained about his Iana of Somewhere Nearby, the more questions he found arising.
Iana had dreaded this part of the journey. Left to her own devices, she would not have risked passing this way, near Largsmuth, but would have taken ship on the west coast and gone to a place unknown. Though it was unlikely anyone hereabout would recognize her as sister to Newell, it certainly was not impossible. He had many friends in the area who had visited their home and met her as a girl. Despite all that had happened to her, she had not changed overmuch in looks, save to grow taller.
Sir Henri had taken the lead when she stopped to adjust Tam’s sling. Now he led them directly through the town. Iana kept her head bowed, cutting her gaze right and left, thankfully seeing only strangers.
Largsmuth proved an odd mix of buildings, some wattle and daub, some quite wonderfully constructed of wood. A few of the latter boasted hinged half-walls, let down, propped upon supports and used as tables to display wares of the shopkeepers.
The remainder of the silver chain lay within her pouch, begging to be spent upon a decent gown, shoes that were not encrusted with mud, and soft-scented soaps to soothe her skin. She sighed and rode on, knowing the folly of spending for things she could do without.
“Ah, I see an inn up ahead,” Sir Henri said, turning. “We shall sleep there tonight.”
Then, as if he had read her mind, he added, “And purchase new raiment in these shops, of course. We should not arrive at my brother’s keep looking the part of beggars.”
Everand cleared his throat and eased past her to halt next to his lord. “Sir, we haven’t any coin for that.”
The knight looked back at her, smiling confidently. “Lady Iana will graciously allow us some of the silver from the chain, and I shall repay her the instant we arrive at Baincroft.”
“Nay,” she said, shaking her head. “I say we shall not stay here the night, nor shall we spend my silver upon fripperies, sir.”
His smile disappeared. “You would grudge us this, lady? I had not marked you as miserly. Do you not believe that I will compensate you? I remind you, we did save your silver from the thieves, did we not? You would have none of it, were that not so.”
He had her there. Had it not been for him and the lad, she would have nothing left now, not even her honor. Iana looked around her, keeping her face half-concealed by the rough wimple. She saw no person familiar to her. What could it hurt to rest her bones upon a feather-stuffed bed for a change?
Happening upon someone who knew her face worried her as much as spending the silver. She would not have to go about in the town once they had secured rooms in the inn. Sir Henri could buy what they must have. These townfolk would not remark much upon the fact that he was French, as would have those in the small villages they had passed. Many foreigners must travel through a city this size.
“Very well,” she agreed reluctantly. “Make for the inn.”
He gave a firm nod and urged the bay on down the cobbled street toward the two-story building with the hanging sign.
“Lead the mounts through that alley,” he ordered Everand, pointing to the space between the inn and a cloth merchant’s stall. “There should be a stable in back. See to our beasts yourself, for I do not trust strangers to feed them properly.” He turned to her and waited.
For a moment, she did not realize what he expected of her. Then she remembered. Sighing, she untied the bag containing the chain and plopped it in his outstretched hand.
“Merci,” he said, and smiled reassuringly. “I will repay you, Iana.” In seconds, he had forced apart several of the links with his knife blade.
Iana’s heart sank when he tucked the entire pouch inside his doublet instead of giving it back. Less than half the chain remained since she had paid for their horses and every sackful of food she had begged from the local populace ’twixt here and the coast.
“Follow me, my lady, and remain close,” he warned. “There are likely to be ruffians hanging about the public room.”
She did as he asked, for she had never stayed in an inn before and did not know what to expect once they entered. When she had traveled this way with Newell, Dorothea and their retainers, they had carried their own tents, furnishings, servants and victuals.
When Henri led her inside, she saw that she had been wise to heed him. Several men gathered around a chest-high bench, laughing and toasting each other, well on their way to becoming drunk.
Sir Henri nodded amiably to them and hailed the publican. “We would like rooms,” he informed the man.
“You only need the one,” the bearded proprietor told him. “’Tis large and will sleep four. Two beds.”
Henri looked down at her. “One will do.” Something in his eyes warned her not to protest