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and followed him, making sure to retrieve his knife and the bolt that had bounced off the wall. They reached the far wall and stopped. What was she supposed to do? Jacques still made no move to escape and seemed content waiting for her to decide his fate, yet Morrigan was at a loss of what to do next. A true mercenary would kill the witness and return to finish the business with the bishop.
    Her limbs were heavy and her heart pounded. She barely had the strength to raise her sword. She needed to get away and think it through.
    “Climb over the wall,” she hissed to the wayward minstrel. “Dinna try to escape for I can load my crossbow faster than ye can run.”
    He nodded and easily pulled himself up and over the wall in one fluid motion. Morrigan scrambled after him, not easy with a sword in hand but she managed. On the other side he waited for her, making no attempt to run. She gestured toward the forest, and he obliged her by walking into the trees.
    When his back was turned, she quickly sheathed her sword and loaded her crossbow, following after him into the forest. The minstrel made no attempt to escape, even when he walked through thick brush and she lost sight of him for a minute. She rushed after him, sure he would take the opportunity to flee, but she found him waiting for her on the other side, his face obscured in shadows.
    After walking a good ways up a hill through the thick forest, Morrigan deemed it safe to stop. It was time to do what needed to be done. She must kill the minstrel and go back to finish off the bishop.
    Ice flooded her veins, as if she had been plunged into a frozen loch. Morrigan shivered involuntarily in the silver moonlight.
    “The night, it is cold. My cloak is yours.” The minstrel slowly unpinned his brown cloak and held it out to her.
    “Keep it,” said Morrigan. She hardly wanted his kindness. She needed him dead. He had seen her; he knew she was going to kill the bishop.
    The minstrel placed the cloak over a low-hanging branch and backed away. Morrigan took a few steps forward to ensure he did not get too far out of range, catching sight of an ominous shape by his thigh—he carried a sword!
    “Yer sword, drop it!” She held the crossbow with two hands, aiming carefully. Why had he not attacked her with it? “Drop it!”
    The minstrel complied without hesitation and backed away from the sword. Morrigan approached slowly and picked up the sword. It was cold and heavy in her hand. A long sword, a warrior’s sword. Why would a minstrel carry that?
    “What were ye doing outside the bishop’s window?” Morrigan barked.
    The minstrel shrugged. “Enjoying the sights. The bishop’s castle is quite impressive, no?”
    It was a lie, but said so boldly and with such confidence that she had to force herself not to be drawn into merry conversation.
    “Why do ye carry such a sword?”
    “I am told the Highlands are a dangerous place, yet I have found it quite hospitable. That is for most of my visit.”
    Morrigan glared at him. She was getting nowhere. Did he not understand she could kill him? “Why do ye no’ ask what I am doing here?”
    “But I would never ask a lady impertinent questions, in particular when she is pointing a weapon at my head.”
    “A common occurrence for ye?”
    “I should hope not! But I feel I must learn from this for my future edification.”
    “Yer future is quite uncertain, sir.”
    The minstrel’s lips hinted at a smile. “Ah yes, that I can see with much clarity. I fear you may seek retribution for my breaking a most important rule of conduct.”
    “And what would that be?”
    “Never kiss the sister of your host.”
    The ice in Morrigan’s veins melted instantly into fire. She gulped the cold night air, trying to cool herself down. It was good they were standing in near darkness because she had a horrible suspicion she would otherwise be caught blushing. Damn that minstrel. She needed to get away for a few minutes and clear her head.
    “Sit