Scotland at war,” Nicholai said, his voice grim, “’tis unsafe to travel without guard, more so with a lass.”
“I agree, but our travel was by King Robert’s decree.”
Surprise flickered on his friend’s face. “He is still nearby? After he took Urquhart, Inverness, and Nairn, I’d heard he marched toward Elgin.”
“I see you still keep your ear to the ground.”
“One of the many tasks I take care of,” Nicholai said.
Nay doubt that and much more. Though his friend didna inquire further, Thomas understood that once alone, he would have questions, more than on the topic of Scotland’s king.
“Now that you are awake,” the monk said, “mayhap I can convince Mistress Alesone to retire to the chamber provided her and rest. Since your arrival three days ago, she has refused to leave your side.”
Tenderness filled him at her concern, compassion far from deserved. The blush on her face deepened, and his body stirred with awareness, one far out of bounds of what she should make him feel.
She cleared her throat. “As I sewed your wounds, I wanted to ensure they healed properly. I assure you,” she said, her words rushing out. “’Tis nay more than any healer would do.”
It was, especially when they now resided at the monastery where others knowledgeable in healing could have seen to him, a fact they both knew. “Mayhap,” he said, his voice tender, “but I insist you rest.”
She hesitated as if searching for an excuse to remain. “I will if you promise that you willna try to get out of bed on your own.”
“I will take care.” When she made to speak, he held up his hand. “Nay more.”
Alesone stood and wove, exposing her exhaustion. Brother Nicholai stood, but she shook her head. “I can make it without help.”
“Mayhap,” the monk said, “but I insist on walking with you.” He glanced at Thomas. “I will return.” His friend escorted Alesone into the corridor.
The door closed behind them. Silence filled the chamber broken by the echoes of distant voices, along with the bongs of the bell announcing the conical hour.
Memories filled Thomas. Even with the many years that had gone by, his time living here remained clear as if nay time had passed. How many mornings had he awoken within the monastery and struggled to accept his lot of having devoted his life to God? At the time he’d risen to face each day, nay duty too mundane, his every act atonement for his sins. However, then as now, naught could repair the grievous wrong he’d wrought.
At the scrape of the door, Thomas glanced up.
“I thought perhaps you might have fallen back asleep,” Nicholai said.
“I was remembering my time here.”
“Your time living here, or the reason for it?”
Thomas swallowed hard. “You always were able to figure out what I was thinking.”
“And you, my friend, were always too hard on yourself.” Sage eyes studied him. “I had hoped that by now you would find forgiveness for yourself. It brings me great sorrow to see you still cling to your pain.”
Grief raged through him and the outrage he’d smothered over the years broke free. “I killed my brother! There is nay forgiveness for that!”
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