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glanced at his rope belt, devoid of purse. Even if he wanted to pay, he could not under his current role.
    Eaton grinned, his normal devil-may-care attitude back again. “I may have dug up a few coins.”
    Nicholas hissed as he pushed him aside. “Christ’s blood. You take too many risks. What if you were seen?”
    “What’s done is done.” He shrugged and jumped to avoid a pile of manure. “By the way, I checked. The rest of our belongings remain well hidden.”
    “Very well. Buy us some food. I’ll see if that saucy tavern wench can cook. Abounding in such miracles, we could eat better tonight.”

Chapter 9
    Once back in the keep, Nicholas asked for the whereabouts of Lady Fay. Apparently, she’d ridden off with quiver and bow. Tired from the long walk, and barely having slept, he lay down in the stables and dozed.
    The tines of a pitchfork poked at his backside. “Get up, ye’ lazy sodden monk.”
    Still groggy, Nicholas jumped with knife to his assailant’s throat. Loki barked madly, circled, and growled.
    Sores of Christ . It was one of Fay’s countless orphans. The young man tried to squirm out of his grasp, but Nicholas held fast. “Forgive, me, my son. I was deep in prayer.”
    “Was not.” The blond, young teenager shot him an insolent look that in some circles would’ve had him lying in a pool of blood by now.
    Nicholas growled into his ear. “And I’m waiting to hear what He has to say about you sticking a prong into my holy arse. He may suggest I slice your throat.”
    “Y-y-you would not, w-w-would you?” He trembled.
    At the scent of the lad’s urine, Loki whimpered, waking Nicholas fully. Oh for the love of all things holy. His leg was pissed upon. “State your name.”
    “Andrew, son of the son of the seed of Magnus. Nephew to the queen.” He jutted out his chin.
    Nicholas well understood the underlying tone and put his knife down, but continued to hold on to the lad’s shoulder. He tried to speak a bit more gently. “How old are you? Why aren’t you working?”
    A spark of anger lit the lad’s eye. “Who would have me? Bastard son of the son of a defeated king.”
    Nicholas’s heart went out to the boy. His position in life was all but impossible. Neither serf, nor priest, nor knight. “I’ll speak to Sir Ferguson on your behalf. Mayhap he will allow you to begin some warrior training. Regardless, you’d best not poke a knight when he sleeps.”
    “I thought you were a monk.” He glowered in the dimly lit cave that served as the stable.
    Nicholas sighed and scratched his itchy bald head. “I’ve slept on battlefields. There, one learns the only way to survive is to wake up with a fast slice across the enemy’s throat. Do you ken?”
    He let go of the boy who raced out the door faster than a hare. No doubt to find a change of clothing. Convinced that Andrew would never do anything so foolhardy again, Nicholas put the horses out into the courtyard, and began the work of cleaning the stables.
    He hung his tunic on a nail, tightened the belt around his braies, and grimaced at having to wear sandals instead of boots. His respect for Franciscans grew daily.
    By late afternoon, rivers of sweat rolled off his body. It was good to do a healthy, godly chore. One without lies and deceit. The job was near finished when Fay’s palfrey whinnied outside. Forgetting his attire, he walked out to take charge of the beast and to help her down.
    Her face, rosy from the riding, became even redder when she spotted him. Instead of lowering her gaze, as more befitting a maiden, she stared without mercy at his braies, which were not loose enough to hide his growing attraction.
    A chivalrous knight would’ve donned tunic or turned, but his quest was to light a fire between her legs and he hoped it was working.
    He grabbed her waist, and lifted her down. “Apologies, m’lady, for my attire. I’ve been cleaning. Allow me to help you.”
    A tall lass, she met him eye to eye as she licked her