Song of the Highlands: The Cambels (The Medieval Highlanders) (42 page)

“
Papa!”
she screamed, tho’ the sound was muffled by the
oiled cloth they’d used to silence her, but her father made no
sound or movement.

The false priest leapt upon his steed behind
her, and her two captives ran their horses at break-neck speed, not
back to the road, as Morgana had expected, but in the opposite
direction.

Her body shook, her heart
ached, her mouth dried.
All is lost...all
is lost...all is lost.
Nay. Nay. She would
pray.
Heavenly Father, if it be your will,
lend me your strength and courage to escape these terrible
men.

With her wrists bound behind her, she was
having difficulty staying seated, and if ‘twere not for the false
priest’s arms at her front and back holding her in place, she would
have fallen off the racing animal already. Her stomach would not be
still, it roiled and turned with every pounding beat of the horse’s
hooves across the great expanse of earth. Where were they taking
her? She tried to remember every word they’d spoken since she’d
been seized by them, but naught made sense. They’d talked of a
place, but not by name, that they’d used before, but it gave her no
clue of how far they would be traveling. Nor had they given her any
indication of their plans for her. A flash-memory of the violence
against her mother sent a chill down her spine, and her gorge
up.

She gagged and coughed.

“If you spew, you’ll choke. And if it lands
on me, I’ll slap you so hard, your ears will ring,” the false
priest hissed.

She nodded and swallowed, afraid to look at
him, lest he take that as an offense and slap her despite her
submission to his will.

The false priest reined in his mount, and
the red-beard did the same.

“We’re far enough away now to drive our
beasts at a slower pace,” the false priest said.

It had been at least a
quarter-hour, by Morgana’s estimation, since they’d fled the site
where her father had been hanged.
Please
let him have died quickly.
The thought of
him suffering there, still alive, yet tormented with pain, made her
vision blur with tears. The knife wound had not spurted blood; it
had gone in clean, so she believed ‘twould not have immediately
ended his life. And she had no knowledge of hanging death; how long
it took for the person to find his eternal peace. Was it mere
moments, or longer still?

She tried to determine
their current location, but she did not recognize the area.
However, she did know they’d fled further south, which meant they
were on, or near, the de Burgh holding.
If
only Guy was not at court!
But, nay, even
then, he’d surely not be wandering about this far from his
fortress.

And Robert? Had he found
the scroll yet? And if he had, had he rushed to find her, or had he
been relieved that she’d taken the burden of their marriage off him
so easily and willingly? She didn’t know which she wished for. Nay.
She did. She knew what these men—well, this
man
—was capable of, for she
remembered it all now. What he’d said to her mother when she’d
asked where her husband was:
“He is dead,
my dove, clove through, then dropped into the loch. And now,
Donnach will get his lands, and I will get my prize as
well.”
She also knew that this man—this
false priest—was the devil who’d forced himself upon her mother,
with her small daughter as terrified witness; that he was the man
that haunted her dreams, whether waking or slumbering; that he was
the
Ankou
who’d
carried the limp, lifeless corpse of her mother from the cot that
night, demanding silence from Morgana, else she would be
next.

He’d left her alone in that dark, dank,
abandoned cot, with the fire set to her family’s covered cart
licking, angry and hot, just outside the door. The flames, she
knew, were meant to engulf the cabin as well, but rains had come,
hard and fierce, and blessedly, they had not. She’d spent the
remainder of that black, lonely night shivering and weeping in the
cold corner she’d been forced into, not allowing a single sound to
emerge lest the man return, and too terrified to venture forth,
lest wolves be on the hunt for their next meal.

Sometime in that night, she’d drifted into a
deep, Cimmerian sleep, until, come the dawn, a stranger, another
minion of her uncle’s, had arrived. He’d been angry to find that
the dwelling still stood, that she still lived, and had moved
toward her with hands outstretched, as if to strangle her, but when
she’d cowered and covered her head, unable now to utter a sound,
he’d halted. After a moment, she’d heard him mutter that he’d not
the stomach to kill an innocent bairn, then yanked her up, hoisted
her onto his horse, and flew with her to the coast, where he’d
given her o’er to this man—this devil—once more. It hadn’t taken
him long to realize she’d lost her voice, and sometime in the
night, her memory and the black pigment to her hair, as well. He’d
paid a sour-faced stout-bosomed woman to sail away with her to the
nunnery in Brittany, where Morgana had been left for years and
years without voice or memory of her life prior. She’d gone mute
and stoic, and ‘twas only through the years of loving kindness
she’d received from the nuns that she’d later warmed to them and
accepted that what e’er had happened to her had been the Lord’s
will, was part of his plan for her, and must ne’er be
questioned.

Another thought struck, and her heart
plummeted. Did Vika know of her father’s betrayal of his own blood?
And if she did? If she did, then Morgana had put Robert in grave
danger! For, her uncle, ‘twas clear, was capable of any low deed to
gain his own ends, and if Vika was an accomplice, even simply by
keeping her silence, then one must assume that she was capable of
such evil as well.

‘Twas another quarter-hour before either of
the men spoke again.

“All right. Our mounts are breathing easier
now. We will run them again, traveling another four or five miles
in this direction, then we’ll cut back to the road leading
east.”

“To the burial site?”

“Aye, to the burial site.”

‘T
WAS AS ROBERT took the last step down the stairs into the
antechamber of the great hall that he was reminded of the guest
he’d left so suddenly nearly a half-hour past.

“Is there aught amiss with your lady
Morgana?” Guy asked, striding toward him.

Robert halted.

Guy’s eyes did a quick sweep of him, then
met his once more, a glint of alarm added to the worry shining in
their depths. “You’re in your mail. Is there danger?”

“Aye—aye. I’ve little time,” he said, and
strode to the door of the armory, taking long strides.

His guest followed.

“Morgana has fled with some pilgrims.”

“How long ago?”

Robert took up sword and shield then hurried
back across the antechamber, out the door of the keep and into the
courtyard, with Guy on his heels. Motioning for one of the
stablemen to bring him his steed, he said at last, “Dawn.”

“They’ve not got far, I’m sure, as they are
no doubt traveling by ox and cart. You’ll get to her in a trice.”
There was a brief pause in which Robert felt his guest’s hard gaze
on him before Guy continued, “But why the battle weapons, then?
Surely, there is little peril from a few devout pilgrims?”

Robert turned to his guest and hesitated,
but finally said in low tones, so that only he would hear, “There
is more: Her uncle has sent men to murder her, but she knows naught
of the plot.”

Two stablemen brought both their horses to
them and Guy swung up onto his saying, “I’ll go with you, then. In
case there is need for another well-trained sword hand.”

“My thanks.” Robert turned to one of the
stablemen and said, “Where is the tinker that I’ve seen about the
past few days?”

“He left this morn, Laird. Early. Behind
that family of pilgrims.”

With a nod, Robert mounted the courser. “We
must fly.”

After they were out of the gate, with
several of Robert’s guards riding a small distance behind, Guy said
to him, “So you believe the tinker is in on the plot?”

Robert took a quick glance behind him and
saw that the men were far enough back not to hear him, if he spoke
quietly. “Nay. ‘Tis Morgana’s father in disguise.”

“Her father!” Guy said in like tones. “But,
I thought—”

“Aye, as did we all—and,
more importantly, as did Donnach Cambel, and does
still,
which is why
we’ve kept it hidden from all but a chosen few. We’ve been
attempting to find and capture the men he sent here to harm
Morgana, then lay a trap for him.”

“Does King William know of this? Surely, he
would—”

“Aye, he knows, and has been doing what he
can to locate any who might betray Donnach for coin or position,
but he has yet to be successful.”

“In which direction do we travel?”

“East. Unless we discover something
amiss.”

“They can’t have gone more than ten to
twelve miles at the most by my estimation, so we should reach them
in not more than three hours—two hours, if we push our mounts.”

“Aye. I confess, I’ve a dread in my gut, and
‘tis telling me to speed to her, but if aught is amiss, ‘twill work
against me—us—if we ruin our animals in doing so.”

“You are right. And we might miss something
we need to see, if we fly past too swiftly.”

* * *

Morgunn lay curled on his side, the dirk
he’d used to free himself on the ground only inches from his
still-twitching body. ‘Twas an agony he’d not expected, this
prickling and shooting pain exploding through his frame, all the
way to the tips of his fingers and toes, with the rush of blood and
vigor that pushed anew through his veins.

He’d swooned once he’d dropped to the
ground, and he had no notion of how long he’d lain here afterward.
He only knew he would not be able to rise until this suffering
lessened. He’d gambled and won, for that he sent a prayer of thanks
to heaven. And now he knew the face of his daughter’s enemies, as
well as what direction they were headed with her. All that was
required of him was to survive long enough to relay as much to
Robert. This time, his brother would pay. Not only with the loss of
land and power, but with his life. There would be no reprieve;
there would be no mercy.

He’d landed in a crumpled mass on his side.
With a grunt and sharp intake of breath, he managed to reach for,
and capture, the dirk in his fist once more. Reaching down, he
awkwardly, and painfully, sawed at the loosened rope that bound his
ankles. The effort made flashpoints of light swim in his vision,
and the blessed blackness of an imminent swoon beckoned, but he
fought hard against it, and finally got the rope off.

‘Twas several more moments before he felt he
could try to stand. It took all the strength he could muster to
roll o’er onto his stomach and rise to his hands and knees. The
strenuous attempt brought a murky fog to the periphery of his
vision and he had to rest without motion with his head dangling
between his shoulders and his lids closed for a bit of time.

The dirk wound stung now that the sharp
tingling had lessened, and he opened his eyes again to view the
dark round stain and the clean slice in his tunic, where the knife
had entered. Alaric’s panic had either given him bad aim, or he had
little knowledge of the exact location of lung or heart in a man’s
chest. Either way, Morgunn praised heaven for that bit of
unexpected good fortune, for it too easily might have gone another,
much more dire, direction. Nay, this wound was not fatal, and he’d
survived worse, so he ignored the petty annoyance and focused once
more on gaining his feet.

He found he could not do it alone, no matter
the strong desire, nor the chiding voice in his brain telling his
body to follow its orders. So, in desperation, as he felt the time
for successful action slipping away, he gripped the dirk in his
hand and crawled to the trunk of the same tree from which he’d been
strung, and girding it with his arms, used it for leverage as he at
last, and finally, came up into a standing position.

His legs did not want to hold him, and his
knees bent, but he gripped the trunk as if he were a drowning man
on a sinking ship, until his limbs stopped quaking beneath him. His
breath blew harsh from his lungs and out his mouth, causing the
ache in his throat to worsen, but still he would not give in to
it.

After a short while, he felt steady enough
to attempt to walk, and was grateful when he was able to take
several staggering steps without falling on his face. Standing,
swaying in place after each set of steps he took, ‘twas not more
than another quarter-hour before he at last made it to the edge of
the grove.

At this slow rate of pace,
he knew that ‘twould be past sext, and possibly nearing nones by
the time he made it within the walls of the MacVie fortress once
more.
And if Robert has already gone in
false pursuit of the pilgrim wain?
Then he
would fly to their side.
In the state you
are in? You’ll not make it to the crossroads.
Aye—aye, he would. Or die in the attempt.
But, I shall also send a missive to the King, for the sake of
my daughter’s safety.

* * *

They were nearing the crossroads when Robert
happened to glance toward the grove of oaks up ahead and saw a man
holding his palm to his side and stumbling forward. “There!” he
said to Guy, then spurred his horse from a trot into a gallop.
‘Twas not until he was several yards away that he recognized that
the man was Morgunn.