Scoundrel of Dunborough by Margaret Moore

his eyes. No doubt he was thinking of the five marks Audrey owed him, and wondering if and when he might be repaid.
    Giving the big man in a bloody apron a pleasant smile to hide the shame she felt, Celeste reached into her cuff and pulled out her nearly empty purse. “I need a bit of meat for a stew, if you please.”
    The butcher nodded and bundled a few pieces of the cheapest cut in a cabbage leaf, handing it over to her after she gave him the price he asked for. “So you’re not leaving for a bit, eh, Sister?”
    “Not until the house is sold and all of Audrey’s debts are paid,” she assured him before she left his shop, not lingering in case she saw a skeptical expression on his face.
    She went past the well and the women gathered there. She smiled at them, too, and they nodded a greeting in return. Despite their apparent friendliness, she was sure she would be the subject of their conversation when they began talking again. Being the sister of a murdered woman would be more than enough to kindle a lot of gossip and speculation.
    It would be worse if she wasn’t garbed in the habit of a nun. She didn’t regret taking it, and she suspected the mother superior probably considered the loss of a habit a small price to pay for being rid of a troublesome novice whom no amount of punishment would render completely obedient.
    “Alms, good Sister, alms!”
    Celeste halted abruptly. She hadn’t noticed the old woman sitting on the ground inside the entrance to an alley. If she had, she’d more than likely have thought it was a bundle of rags, not a person. The woman was small in stature and her face barely visible beneath the cloth wrapped around her head.
    A filthy, bony hand appeared. “Alms?” the beggar repeated in a weak, quavering voice.
    Celeste took out her leather drawstring purse. She hadn’t much money left, but she would give something to the poor soul to buy a bit of bread.
    She fished out a ha’penny and, bending down, put it in the outstretched palm.
    “Bless you, Sister, bless you!” the old woman murmured, drawing her hand back.
    Celeste got a good look at the old woman’s filthy face and nearly dropped her purse. “Eua?”
    Clutching the coin, Gerrard’s old nurse scuttled back against the wall like a crab. “No, no, I ain’t!”
    “You are!” Celeste cried, moving toward the woman who had been like a mother to Gerrard. “What happened? How have you come to this?”
    “Go ’way!” she cried. “You ain’t seen me!”
    Celeste reached down to take Eua’s arm and help her to her feet. The stench was nearly overpowering. Even so, she couldn’t leave her there like that.
    With unexpected strength Eua tried to push her away. “Don’t tell nobody you seen me! Don’t tell
him
!”
    Celeste didn’t have to ask who she meant. “You must let me get you some food.”
    And a bath. And clean clothes.
    “No, no, let me go!” Eua cried frantically, hobbling into the street just as Gerrard and his men rode through the market.
    “Look out there!” Gerrard cried, reining in abruptly.
    As his horse neighed in protest and the rest of the patrol behind him brought their mounts to a halt, Eua screeched and fell to her knees. She threw her hands over her head and started to sob, her whole body shaking.
    Celeste knelt beside the distraught old woman, trying to see if she was hurt or ill or simply frightened.
    “Don’t tell him who I am!” Eua wailed, writhing as if someone had set her on fire.
    “S’blood!” Gerrard cried in disbelief as he dismounted. “Eua?”
    The old woman covered her face and twisted away. “No, no, I ain’t, I ain’t!”
    Gerrard didn’t move. “Get up, Eua.”
    “No, no!”
    “You must. You shouldn’t have come back here.”
    “Why shouldn’t she be here?” Celeste asked, appalled by his harsh tone. “This is her home.”
    “She has forfeited that right.”
    Celeste regarded him with bafflement. “What has she done that you should say that? This woman