Page 11 of The Mercenary

Sabine followed him into the second abbey just as the sun began to rise. This one was small, just two buildings and a chapel. And even though they could not possibly know she’d escaped from Holybourne the previous night, her legs felt heavier and heavier with each step toward the small stone building.

When a woman appeared at the door, fully dressed despite the hour, Sabine knew immediately this was the Reverend Mother. Her eyes widened upon seeing Sabine standing behind Guy.

“Apologies for the hour,” he began, Guy’s tone shockingly sweet, “but will you please send for Father Wheeland? Tell him Guy Lavallais requests his presence in the chapel. We shall meet him there.”

With a slight bow, he turned and began to walk toward that very place. Sabine stood stock-still, she and the Reverend Mother staring at each other. Eventually the nun turned without a word back into the building, leaving Sabine to follow Guy toward the darkened chapel.

Nay, not darkened. As they entered, wall torches on either side of the altar lent an eerie glow to the early morning scene. Small, like the rest of St. Mary’s, it was nevertheless well-appointed.

Sabine took a seat on the closest bench, weary from riding all night. Her backside screamed in protest even though she sat near the very edge of the seat.

He was watching her, those variegated eyes studying her.

Was she really going to marry this man? A stranger. A mercenary. A traitor to the king?

Aye. The alternative was one she’d been living these past months, and it was unacceptable.

“Reconsidering?”

He strode toward her, sitting on the bench opposite her.

“Nay. Are you?”

He looked as if she’d offended him. “If you are truly in danger of pursuit from Lord Burge while you are in my care, then my mission is in danger of discovery.”

She supposed that was a nay.

“Why do you believe this priest will marry us without preparation at such an hour?”

He smiled. Not just any smile, but a knowing one that told her clearly she did not want the answer to that question.

So he had information on this priest. Or something equally nefarious.

“Who are you?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Guy Lavallais of Cradney Wrens. Half English and half French, courtesy of my mother. Born and raised a mercenary, like my father. Blackmailed into marriage by a lovely nun who, by the by, is wearing a habit to her own wedding.”

Sabine winced. To hear what she’d done in such terms . . .

Nay, she would not apologize. To him. To herself. She’d done what was needed, and her father had always said that women apologize far too often.

Sabine reached up to remove the headdress. She’d become so accustomed to wearing it, she had completely forgotten it was there.

A voice from behind stopped her.

“What urgent business demands such an early waking for an old man?”

The priest wasn’t happy. But he was indeed old. Dressed in a brown robe that looked as if he’d worn it every day for many years, the white-haired man ambled toward them, stopping when Sabine turned to face him.

“Good morn, Father.” Guy stood. “If you’ll see to the business of my marriage vows, I would be grateful for it.”

Sabine nearly burst into laughter at the man’s stricken expression. For the rest of her days she would remember the shock on his face.

“You go too far this time, Lavallais. I certainly cannot perform such a deed—”

“She is no nun.” Guy frowned. “An oblate. And not of her choosing.”

Sabine stood and made her way toward the ancient priest.