Rurik felt a certain measure of satisfaction as he watched Margriet surrender to his demands, but that feeling dulled when faced with her next action. Aye, his quarry was run to ground and the task his father set for him—a test no doubt—would be completed in a short time. Her nervous reaction could be considered usual for one of the fairer sex. His boots had worn worse in the course of their use and he did not fret over them…well not too much. It would wash off.

      The gates stood open now even if the occupants of the convent remained out of sight. One nun stood at the doorway to the small church and seemed to be their watchman—turning and whispering to those inside every time he or his men moved or spoke or grunted or spit. Sven and Magnus had caught on quickly and now gestured or spoke just to see the reaction the move brought. The nun did not realize yet that she was the object of their amusement. He should stop them, for making merry at the expense of these women of God was not something he should sanction. But, their manipulation was innocent fun and no one was harmed by it.

      A strong breeze carried the nauseating smell to him and Rurik knew the vomit would be harder to remove if it dried into his boots. Looking around the small enclosed yard, he spied a well and walked to it. Since the lady gave no sign of an imminent arrival, he suspected there was time enough to see to it before they left on their journey. As he reached for the bucket, the approach of an old man surprised him.

      “She hasna ridden much,” the man blurted out with no warning.

      Rurik continued his task, tossing the bucket down the well and pulling it up once it was filled. Tilting it, he let the water pour down his legs and boots, then he used one foot to scrub the mess off the other, continuing until most of the muck was loosened. His other purpose for not responding was that he knew his silence would spur on the old man. It was not long in coming.

      “She hasna left here in the years since her da sent her here,” he offered. Rurik noticed the man did not stand straight but appeared wizened with many years of life.

      “What has that to do with me, old man?” he asked. Finished with removing the odorous material from his boots, he tossed the bucket where he’d found it and met the man’s gaze now. “Do you think I will mistreat her?”

      “The daughter of Gunnar is a prize and should be treated with respect,” the man replied, rising to a height Rurik would not expect possible. “Ye will answer to me for any harm done her.”

      The temptation to laugh filled him, but he tempered it. Both knew the man would never be able to best him in any test of skills or strength, but Rurik respected his attempts to intimidate. More interesting, the words and fervor told Rurik much about his true opponent in this confrontation—the lady Margriet.

      Rurik bowed to the man and nodded. “You have my word that no harm will befall her while in my care, old man.”

      He peered up at Rurik, apparently considering his pledge, and then nodded with a grunt. “Ye’ll do.”

      With all the pride of a Highland warrior, the man reached out and offered his arm. Rurik stepped over to his and clasped arms, shaking it. “What are you called, old man? And what is your place here?”

      “I am called Black Iain and I tend to the flocks.”

      His hair may have been black at some point in his life, but Iain would be more suitably called Gray and Balding Iain now. A commotion, beginning inside the main building and spreading to the yard, interrupted any more conversation. His hand moved to his sword as Rurik turned to face the trouble. As he watched the group of women exit from the convent, he knew a sword was not necessary for this.

      The weeping crowd held at its center the woman of whom they spoke. She alone did not cry or make a sound as they moved toward him. Now though, a nun’s veil covered her waist-length black hair and most of her face. Her eyes, the palest blue Rurik had seen, were luminous against her pale skin, at least the skin he could see. The nun’s clothing back in place, Rurik contemplated for the first time that mayhap she had truly taken her vows.

      Shaking his head at the waste of it, he whistled to his men and nodded at the gate. Ceasing their antics, Sven and Magnus crossed to the gate and gathered the rest of the men together. Finally, after days of waiting, first for her acquiescence and then for her preparations, their journey would begin. Meeting her gaze over the heads of those around them, Rurik was struck by the sudden vulnerability he spied there. While secure within the convent’s safety, Margriet seemed fearless. Now, when about to enter into his care, her brave face slipped and he was certain that the others were keen to it, too.

      Making his way to her, he easily pushed the others out of the way and Rurik took her arm. Guiding her toward the gate, he nearly did not notice when she planted her feet and stopped moving with him. Annoyance grew once more and he turned to face her.

      “No more delays, lady,” he demanded. “I thought that was clear in my instructions. An hour, no more, to finish your preparations.”

      “Sister,” she said, her lips pursed in an enticing and yet mutinous manner, at once beguiling and infuriating him for his reaction. “You may call me ‘Sister.’”

      Silence reigned as everyone quieted to await his response. In spite of the habit and veil, he was still not certain of her standing, but decided to give her the benefit of his doubt. “Sister, then. There are only a few more hours of daylight and I want to take advantage of every moment.” To get you as far away from here as possible and then discover your truth.

      Her