Song of the Highlands: The Cambels (The Medieval Highlanders) (41 page)

Symon nodded. “Lead the way.”

* * *

With Grímr and Vika well on their way, and
the brief discussion with his mother-in-law relaying all that had
been decided, as well as his need for her to take full control of
his wife’s duties as castelaine for the time being accomplished,
Robert turned and began climbing the stairs leading to his
bedchamber.

Wife Deirdre had told him early this morn
that Morgana had grown restless in her seclusion and wanted to
return to her daily tasks. In fact, his wife was becoming more
difficult to keep confined to her chamber without force, and he
could not allow that. Tho’ if it came to choosing between
imprisoning her against her will or telling her that someone had
tried to kill her—and had succeeded in killing their unborn babe—he
didn’t know which he’d choose. For, either option would no doubt
send her into an even worse state than she was in already. Mayhap,
one from which she’d ne’er recover.

Nay, he must somehow soothe her, keep her
believing ‘twas the right thing to do, the best thing for her to
do.

He was several steps from the landing when
his steward called to him from below, saying Guy de Burgh awaited
him in the great hall.

Robert pivoted and trotted back down the
steps, saying, “My thanks. Have some ale brought in.”

* * *

Morgana grabbed hold of the tinker’s
outstretched elbow for leverage as she slid her foot from one of
her low leather shoes and shook from it the pebble that had lodged
there. She was just slipping the covering back in place when she
heard the sound of horses’ hooves pounding o’er the heath to her
right. Startled, she whipped her head around and quickly stood,
fear spiking inside her that ‘twas her husband she’d see galloping
toward her.

Vaguely, she became aware
that her traveling companion had gone rigid beside her as well, and
from her periphery she saw a spark of steel flash in his hand.
“Keep your eyes down, what e’er you do,” he murmured gruffly, then
pushed her behind him. She saw then that he’d slit the back of his
tunic and tucked the dirk inside a leather sheath strapped to his
waist there. Who did he fear these men to be?
Freebooters?
Her heart lurched in
her chest and began to speed.
Surely
not.
But who else then? With hands that
trembled, she folded the gap in the slit closed more fully and
pressed her chin to her chest.

All at once, the men were upon them, waiting
until they were near to trampling them before pulling sharply on
their reins, causing dirt and gravel to fly up. A pebble hit
Morgana on the cheek and before she realized what she was doing,
she’d jerked her head up and lifted her hand to her bloodied cheek.
The tinker lunged forward with a guttural cry in the same moment
that Morgana’s eyes landed on her uncle’s priest. She staggered
back and her heel landed on the side of a hole in the path. Her
ankle twisted painfully and she fell backwards onto her elbows and
her backside, making the covering on her head fly off.

“ ‘Tis the mute! Get her!”
the priest yelled to the other man and when he did so, Morgana’s
horrified gaze shifted to him.
The
apprentice at the well!
She struggled to
gain her feet, but her ankle gave way when she tried to put weight
on it, and she fell back again just as the large red-bearded man
gripped her by the waist and flung her o’er his shoulder. “What
fortune!” he said to the priest. The hard shoulder pushing into her
chest made it impossible to take in more than a scant bit of
air.

“Make haste!” she heard the priest say.

Her heart thudded against
her breastbone.
What is happening?
She blinked the floating lights from her eyes,
then switched her gaze to the tinker. The priest had somehow gagged
him and tied his hands behind his back while she was being
captured. She lifted her eye to his and, for yet another time that
day, a
frisson
of
recognition passed through her as he conveyed to her with only a
look that all was not lost and she must not fret.

Her effort toward calm only lasted another
moment, however, for, with the priest’s next words, she knew all
was lost.

“We’ll hang him o’er there, in that stand of
trees,” the priest said, pointing. “And I’ve taken his purse, so
any who find him will think ‘twas thieves who did the deed.”

Morgana’s heart raced so hard that it ached.
She lifted her eye again to the tinker, and found his countenance
stolid. How could he remain so unmoved? In the next instant, she
was hauled onto the priest’s mount, and when he slithered up behind
her, her skin crawled.

Squeezing her eyes shut,
she swallowed back the bile. The horse began to move and, once
again, she swung her gaze around to the tinker. He was now seated
on the other man’s horse, with that man riding in front of him, and
with a rope around his and his captor’s waist securing him there.
Before she had time to form another thought, they were flying
toward the grove of oak, and ‘twas all she could do to keep from
hurtling off her seat. Her heart sank into her stomach.
I am to blame for this.
If she’d not fled this morn, the tinker would now be about
his daily tasks, not here, riding toward his own hanging. And
she...well, what e’er became of her, she surely deserved. For,
she’d clearly not done God’s will. Yet...she’d been so sure that
God had brought those pilgrims for her.

But, she’d been wrong, and now her sin was
so grave, she’d no doubt burn in hell.

* * *

“He is a good King,” Guy explained, “but his
coffers are low, and he must, as he duly pricked my memory, be
e’er-vigilant of John of England.” He dropped his gaze to his
tankard and idly twisted it to and fro where it rested on the
table. “He has ne’er forgotten Alnwick, nor what he was forced to
do at Falaise.”

Robert, arms crossed on
the wooden surface, drummed his fingers against his elbow. “Aye,
‘tis more than understandable, yet….
Aargh!
” Swinging to his feet, he
strode several paces away with his arms firmly akimbo. After a
moment, he turned back to his guest, continuing, “Exceedingly
vexing, as well.”

One corner of Guy’s mouth lifted as he
leaned forward. “Aye, and that, I am sure, is why he also wanted
your memory well-stirred that he would not have given his consent
for you to wed with Morgana, no matter her uncle’s wishes, if
‘twere not for the coin I offered in your stead.”

Robert grinned, in spite
of his ire, and opened his mouth to give a biting retort, when a
loud scuffle came from beyond the door of the great hall, followed
by the anxious, low tones of men’s voices. The thought fled as he
bolted toward the entry.
Morgana!

He flung the door wide and was met with two
sets of eyes, round in either astonishment, or fear, he knew not
which. “Speak,” he said to his cousin. In his periphery, he saw the
door guard step away several paces and resume his post.

“The lady Morgana is not in her chamber, and
some of her ladies’ things are missing. Sh—”

Robert shoved past him and tore up the
stairs, bellowing as he went, “Where is Wife Deirdre?”

“She is awaiting you in your bedchamber,
Laird,” his cousin replied from not far behind him.

“How long?”

“From my guess, since dawn.”

They’d made the landing
and were now jogging toward his chamber door. “ ‘Tis nigh on five
hours then,” Robert said. “She could be anywhere, she could
be...”
dead.

“My pardon, Laird. I-I do not—”

“Nay. Later. I must find my wife.” With a
yank of the handle, Robert threw the door wide. His gaze landed
immediately on the distraught healer.

“She fled, Laird,” the healer told him. “She
was no’ taken.”

“We cannot know that for sure,” Robert said
with force. Crossing the room in two strides, he studied first the
washstand, stained with smears of what looked to be dark ink, yet
empty of her brush and comb, then scanned the rest of the chamber,
noting the odd bulging mass under a blanket by the hearth. “She may
have been wiled.”

“She left ye a letter, Laird. Or, someone
did.” Wife Deirdre handed him the scroll.

As Robert unfurled the small square of
parchment, his cousin said, “She made me believe that lump there,”
pointing to the blanket, “was Wife Deirdre’s daughter, then bade me
to do a task for her. I ne’er would hav—”

Robert held up his hand and said, “Enough,”
as he began to read. A vise of both anguish and fear gripped his
insides. ‘Twas true: She’d left him. He strode toward the door. “If
I am to retrieve her and return before night falls, I must leave
forthwith.”

* * *

“Here,” the priest said to the red-beard as
he reigned in his mount and looked up into the boughs of a large
oak. “This one has a good-sized branch. Just there.” He pointed.
“It should hold him.”

This man was no priest, that much Morgana
had at long last perceived. In the past moments, as they traveled
toward the grove, she’d also gathered that she was their true
quarry, and evidently had been for quite some time. They spoke
freely between themselves, as if, because she was mute, they
believed her to be deaf as well.

Or, mayhap—and this was even more
chilling—they simply realized that she was no match for their
strength and would not escape their plans for her, no matter if she
attempted such or nay.

The red-beard slid from his horse then
yanked the tinker off as well, throwing him to the ground.

“Ow! Ya deevl’s spawn!”

“Whist!” the false priest yelled, kicking
the tinker in the chest.

Whist...whist
….
Whist, while I lay claim to my prize.
The words spun in Morgana’s head and her vision tunneled as
she watched the tinker’s face land in the dry sticks and other
fallen plant debris that littered the area under the canopy of
branches and leaves.

The tinker lifted his blue
gaze to hers and in that suspended moment, a flood of memories
flashed in her mind.
Papa!
Her vision cleared. She flung herself from the
back of the horse and knelt down, shielding him with her body.
She’d scarcely gotten her arms around him before she was wrenched
back up.

“Tie her hands and feet,” the false priest
told the red-beard.

Manacles of flesh, sinew, calluses and bone
gripped her wrists, but she twisted and turned, pulled and kicked.
He snatched her head back with a fist in her hair and shook her,
growling, “Be still!”

“No!!” she bellowed back, slamming her elbow
into his solar plexus and grinding the heel of her uninjured foot
into his instep.

“She’s got her voice back, it seems,” the
red-beard said in a strained voice as he grabbed her around the
waist and lifted her off her feet. She tried to elbow him again,
but the blows found no purchase.

“Be still, m’lady!” she heard the tinker,
her father, say and she swung her gaze to his. His look—it held a
message, but she knew not what. “Be still,” he said again, this
time with less force, but with more surety. “Do no’ figh’ them
becooz o’ me.”

The false priest stepped toward her and
lifted a lock of her hair, caressing it between thumb and
forefinger. “He speaks rightly, my dove. Be a peaceable little
bird, and you may yet live to see another dawn.”

She gathered a pool of spit in her mouth,
but before she let it fly, she glanced at her father and he shook
his head. Then, almost imperceptibly, he tilted his head at the
false priest, indicating she should do as the man said, so she went
slack and allowed the red-beard to drop her to her feet and
continue trussing her wrists. The red-beard went down on one knee
and was about to tie her ankles when the false priest said, “Nay.
Just the wrists for now, I’ve changed my mind.”

“Are you sure? She seems awfully attached to
this peddler. She may give us trouble again when we put the rope on
him.”

“Aye, just the wrists. She’s a sore ankle
for now, she’d not get far.” Almost as an afterthought, he added,
“And muffle her, as well.”

The red-beard shrugged and returned to a
standing position.

Her gaze ne’er left her father while she was
forced to silence anew, then settled on the back of the false
priest’s mount once more. Again, she wondered how her father could
be so calm in the face of his imminent death. Yet, now that she’d
had another moment to think on why he’d been so keen to stop her
from fighting her captors, she realized that he wanted her to have
a chance at rescue, and if they killed her here and now, there
would be none.

* * *

“Make haste,” the false priest told the
red-beard a time later as he swung one end of the rope o’er a broad
tree limb, “but be thorough, ‘twill not be good for us if the rope
fails.”

“Aye...
argh
...he’s a heavy one,” the
red-beard said as he hoisted Morgana’s father up, using the
long-tail of the rope that was coiled around his neck and o’er the
branch. “We must be miles away, and quickly, else we shall hang
beside him, I trow.” Her father hadn’t said another word since
speaking to her earlier, and now he seemed resigned to his fate,
his eyes downcast, his frame loose, his hands and feet,
fettered.

Her father was still no longer. His body
jerked and twisted, his face turned red, then blue. A shuffling
noise, not too far off, came to them, and the two men panicked. The
false priest pushed the red-beard toward his mount, saying between
his teeth, “Go! Make haste! Make haste!” then stabbed her father in
the chest with a dirk that seemed to come from nowhere.