Song of the Highlands: The Cambels (The Medieval Highlanders) (43 page)

Robert reined in his mount and leapt from
its back with the animal still in motion, the force of which gave
him the added speed needed to reach his father-in-law in a mere
twinkling. However, ‘twas still too late to catch him up before he
crumpled to the ground, wheezing in shallow breaths.

“Can you sit a horse?” Robert asked him.

For answer, Morgunn gave him a nod.

Robert saw the red and swollen rope marks
around his father-in-law’s neck, as well as the patch of blood that
stained his tunic, and knew instantly what they portended.
“Donnach’s minions?”

Morgunn nodded. “They...,” he rasped,
“...have...have my daughter.”

Guy arrived then. “Her father?” he asked
Robert.

Robert nodded, lifting his father-in-law up
using a shoulder under the man’s arm, and an arm around his back.
“Know you in which direction they have fled?”

“Aye,” Morgunn croaked. “South.”

“South?”

“You—
argh
!—will find their tracks there,”
Morgunn pointed to an area behind the grove. “ ‘Tis been a while,
but I’ve lost time, so I cannot say for sure.” He sucked air in and
out of his lungs for several heartbeats, then continued in a
stronger voice, “They are headed for an ancient ritual site, but I
know not which.” Morgunn gripped Robert’s arm. “Find my daughter.
Find her before he defiles her, before he does to her what he did
to my Gwynlyan.”

Robert’s heart sped. “Aye,
I will.” In all this time, he’d only thought of the minions’ goal
to murder, ne’er that they’d ravage her first. His hands, clammy
with sweat, fisted at his sides.
If she’s
been used for their base pleasure, I shall castrate them, stuff
their tarses in their gobs, sew their lips shut,
then
I shall kill
them.

Even more anxious now to continue on, and
seeing that the strain of speaking was diminishing Morgunn’s
strength, Robert questioned him no further. In twenty more
struggling steps, they reached the group of guards. Robert said to
the first, “This man fought to save my wife’s life from
freebooters. Take him directly to my wife’s maid, Modron. Tell her
he is to be given a chamber inside the keep, along with what e’er
care Wife Deirdre decrees.”

“Aye, Laird.”

After hoisting him up on his guard’s horse
and taking a moment to watch the pair ride off so that he might
confirm that Morgunn would, indeed, stay mounted, Robert swung back
up onto his courser again, saying, “We must fly.”

They’d traveled some distance before Guy
asked, so that only Robert would hear, “Why did you not tell the
guard that the man with whom he was entrusted was your
father-in-law?”

“I know not if they left someone behind to
continue spying, and Morgunn is an even greater prize to Donnach
than is my wife.”

* * *

A half-hour and a quarter later, Robert, Guy
and the remaining guards stopped at a small trickling burn to water
their horses. Yet again, his hand slid o’er the pouch at his side
that held Morgana’s letter, itching to bring it out and read it
another time, but more slowly, with hope of finding some unwritten
reason, other than the one declared, for leaving him without a
word, without one inkling of her worry, of her intent to do so. He
looked behind him and as he did, something odd, some design on the
horizon, unnatural in color and placement, and in the direction of
his own holding, caught his attention. He blinked, then focused
with more precision. His mind and body went on full alert. “Guy,”
he said, gripping the other man’s arm without realizing.

Guy whipped his attention from the stream
where his horse was drinking deeply and turned it to Robert.
“Aye?”

“Tell me that is not smoke coming from my
holding.”

Guy followed the line of Robert’s gaze with
his own. “Holy Mother of God. Aye. Aye, ‘tis yours.”

The cogs in Robert’s mind whirred. “I must
continue on to save my wife.” He swung his sights on Guy. “Will you
go back with the guards and do all you can to get those within the
keep to safety—forget not that Morgana’s mother and father are
within the walls as well—then do what you can to put the fire
out?”

“Of course.” Guy said naught else, simply
mounted his steed and began to fly back in the direction he’d come,
not awaiting the guards.

“Rally our neighbors, if need be!” He called
to Guy’s back, satisfied when the man lifted his hand in
recognition and accord as he galloped away.

Robert ran towards his men, who were several
yards down stream from him. “Make haste! Go with Guy de Burgh!” he
commanded. “Our keep is afire!”

A chorus of agitated “Ayes” filled the air
as the men swung their horrified gazes in the direction of the
MacVie land and scrambled onto their horses.

“Follow Guy de Burgh’s command, for he acts
as my proxy. Do what you must to save our people, then do what you
can to save our fortress!”

* * *

Alone now, Robert hurriedly finished
watering his horse, took several handfuls to drink himself, then
mounted and quickly picked up the trail of his quarry once more. As
he flew across the glen, it took everything within him to maintain
the single-minded focus needed to the goal most paramount and to
stifle the worry and ill-boding that threatened to rise up within
him at any moment with regard to the welfare of his keep and
clan.

* * *

Sunset came late this time of year, and tho’
the two men had ridden at a slower pace once they’d gained the road
east once more, Morgana battled fatigue. Hypnos poured out sleep
upon her, enticing her to succumb to the divine torpor he offered,
making her lids heavy and her mind muddled. She struggled mightily
to stay awake, to shed the fog that crept slowly in, to concentrate
on the direction in which the men were moving, on what they were
saying to each other, on any small chance she might have to escape
them, and to push away the waking dreams of violence and fire that
crowded in uninvited.

A piercing pain at the tip of her breast
yanked her back from the edge of oblivion and she cried out,
wrenching away. In a fog, she tried lifting her hand to cover the
pained region, but met the resistence of the cord that still bound
her wrists. ‘Twas in that moment that she became aware of the false
priest’s thumb stroking o’er the same stinging nipple. “Nay!” she
shrieked, and tried to twist out of his hold. The maneuver was both
a success and a failure, for tho’ he released possession of her
breast, he gripped her waist with a violent passion that frightened
her even more.

A low rumble of angry laughter came from him
then. “You are as well-formed as your mother,” he murmured against
her ear. “You shall make a fine replacement for my games I’ll
wager. Very fine indeed.”

Her pulse pounded in her ears. She said the
first thing that came to mind. “Nay, I’ll not. For my husband will
catch and kill you first.”

The red-beard had
evidently heard her words, for he burst into laughter as well. The
false priest met his eye and grinned. “Nay, dove.
He’ll
not,” he answered,
his gaze ne’er turning to her.

Panic sent her stomach into her throat.
“What have you done?” A terrible foreboding squeezed at her
heart.

“Only a few strategically placed vats of
animal fat, and Symon’s own recipe for Greek fire, my dove.”

Her ears rung. “Wh—what do you mean?”

He threw his head back and chortled.

Symon answered. “Fire. Fire is what.”

Robert! Modron! My
clan!
She bucked and lurched, bit and
clawed her way out of his embrace and off the horse, landing hard
on her hip and thigh, and skinning her cheek on the graveled road
before she managed to roll and rise to her knees and then to her
feet. She only made it ten to twelve running paces before he caught
her by the arm and yanked her up against him, gripping so tight,
she couldn’t take air into her lungs.

“Nay, dove,” the false
priest murmured against her cheek, his hot, moist breath wetting
her skin, making it crawl. “You are mine...at least, until
you
are
no
longer
.
” He
gripped her breast in a painful squeeze, sinking his teeth into the
tender flesh at the base of her neck at the same time.

She elbowed him in the ribs, letting go a
roar of fury, but it only whetted his appetite for her more, as his
other lecherous hand clamped her between her legs, fondling her
roughly there, and pushing her left hip and buttock against his
grinding, engorged manhood. “Aye, there’s fire in you, just like
your mother.”

Her racing heart tripped. A fleet thought:
Was her mother dead, or alive? Nay, she had no time to ponder it
now, as ‘twas plain he’d take her with violence here on the ground,
and in front of the red-beard, if she didn’t manage to stop him. It
demanded more will than she e’er believed she had, but she went
slack in his brutal embrace, forcing her eyes to rest impassively
upon the far distance, making sure to give him no sign that this
attack on her frightened, pained, or affected her in any small way.
And in that extended moment, she prayed that this new tack would
dash his depraved desires, not ignite them even more.

* * *

Somewhere to Robert’s
left, an owl screeched, then flapped its wings into flight, making
the tree’s leaves, where it had so recently perched, shiver and
shake. The dark shadow up ahead in the distance, which Robert had
thought to be a river boulder stone, suddenly moved, became
distinct, and he halted his tread, went still. The roe deer lifted
his head, met his gaze briefly, then twisted and bolted into the
stand of trees that graced the bank of
Garbh Uisge
.

He’d been leading his
horse on foot, and by the puny light of a small torch fire, since
darkness fell two hours past, as the road was uneven, and his horse
needed a rest from his weight. He’d have to stop and allow the
animal, and himself, a rest, but not yet. Nay, not yet. For his gut
was telling him ‘twas too soon, that if he kept moving, he’d gain
on his prey. If not this night, then on the morrow, surely, and
before they had an inkling of his presence. As well, there was the
fear that gnawed and clawed like angry lions at his middle. The
fear that if he ceased moving, if he rested the night, his wife
would not be alive by the morn. As if a charm against evil, or a
tangible connection to his wife, Robert ran the rough pads of his
fingers o’er the rolled parchment in his pouch once more.
I’ll let no harm come to you, Morgana. This I
vow.

He’d traveled another hour down the dark
road that skirted the north bank of the river when he heard the low
murmur of voices. He stilled, tensed and primed to strike, his eyes
and ears honed. But as the sound became more distinct, he relaxed.
‘Twas merely some canonical chanting. There must be a cloister
near. Perhaps they had some well water, and some grain for his
courser—and a bit of bread and meat for him as well. He’d not stay
long, but he knew ‘twas time to give his horse another rest, and if
fortune shined on him, perhaps the clerics might have seen his wife
with the two men, might be able to tell him that she still lived,
might be able to say, for sure, how long ago they’d passed
through.

He began to jog, moving toward the sound,
and ‘twas not long before he saw, twinkling in the blackness,
several dark figures carrying tapers, and walking in a line. He
slowed and stayed several paces behind them until they led him to
the low stone gate that surrounded the court of a small chapel. As
he watched them entering one-by-one through the door of the church,
he tethered his horse to an iron ring in the gate, jogged over to
the well and doused the torch in a bucket of water, then somberly,
and quietly, followed the last of them inside.

Pushing the hood of his mail back from his
head, he went down on one knee and bowed his head, awaiting the
completion of the monks’ service, and an indication from the abbot
that he would be allowed an audience. After another quarter-hour,
the abbot ended the service and came over to stand before Robert’s
kneeling form.

“I am Abbot Alasdair. By what name are you
known, sire knight?”

“I am Robert MacVie, Laird and Chieftain to
the MacVie’s of Awe.”

“Rise, Robert MacVie, and tell us what
brings you to our humble church in the dark of night. Is aught
amiss?”

Robert came to his feet, only recognizing
then how short of stature the corpulent man of God truly was, as,
for a brief moment, Robert only saw the crown of the abbot’s
shining tonsure before he stepped back a pace and craned his neck
to meet Robert’s gaze.

“I hunt the men who have snatched my wife.”
The abbot’s eyes grew round. “There are two of them, and they are
traveling with a woman—my wife. I believe she is dressed in plain
wool, as a poor pilgrim.” Robert swept his gaze o’er all in the
chamber. “Have they passed by here?”

The abbot made a half-turn to include his
brothers and said, “Nay, we’ve had no others rest here for many
moons. Since Lenten last. Is that not so, Prior Fearghus?”

A tall, gaunt, white-caterpillar-browed monk
answered, “Aye, that is so, Father Abbot.”

A youth, not more than sixteen summers, with
black hair and pale eyes took two steps forward, saying, “I saw
three travelers on the road not long before sunset, Father, when I
was crossing the south glen in search of the two missing ewes.”

“Were they on horseback?” Robert asked,
moving around the abbot.

“Aye, sire, they were, tho’ I was not close
enough to see their garb, or their faces, clearly. Two rode on one
horse, a man in black cloth—possibly a priest’s robe, but I cannot
say for sure—and...and...aye, it could have been a lass riding with
him, but the hood of her mantle hid her hair from view.”