Song of the Highlands: The Cambels (The Medieval Highlanders) (44 page)

The priest!
Of course!
Why had he
ne’er put that together before? “Aye, that would be them. I’m sure
of it. And the other one? What of him?”

The youth’s brows furrowed in thought. “As I
said, I did not see their visages, but the second horseman was
large, with red hair.” His eyes brightened. “And red beard!” he
said, his voice lifted in excitement.

The description sent
Robert’s heart into his stomach.
The
apprentice!
What a fool he’d been!
Donnach’s minion had been directly under Robert’s nose all these
moons, and he’d failed to uncover the man’s true purpose; failed to
block the man from executing Donnach’s murderous plan; failed to
keep Morgana safe; and, now that Robert’s suspicions regarding how
the fire was set were confirmed, failed his clan as
well.

“They were traveling east?” Robert finally
managed.

“Aye, sire. East. ‘Twas nigh on four—nay,
five hours past.”

Robert turned and addressed Abbot Alasdair.
“I cannot tarry long here, but would beg a meal for both my horse
and myself, and an hour or two to rest him as well before I begin
my hunt once more.”

The abbot nodded and, with a comforting pat
on Robert’s shoulder, led him through a short corridor off the nave
and into the small chamber that was clearly being used as their
refectory. He was given a pottage of venison and root vegetables
within moments of being seated, along with a tankard of ale. Robert
made short work of downing the meal, then asked again that he might
beg some grain for his horse as well.

A half-hour later, he and his courser shared
a stall filled with fresh hay, and at long last, he allowed himself
to doze.

* * *

‘Twas still dark when
Robert woke with a start, his heart hammering in his chest. His
body had betrayed his will and he’d fallen into a deep, dreamless
sleep.
But for how long?
Pushing to his feet, he took precious moments to
groom, feed, and water his courser before tacking it up again. Once
out in the stable yard, he was able to gauge the time by the
setting moon. He’d dawdled here at least two hours, ‘twas clear,
but he had every belief that the two men who held Morgana captive
had stopped for the night somewhere as well.

Learning that his wife was still with the
men late last eve had calmed Robert’s worry, if only by a small
degree. For, they’d had more than ample time to kill her and
dispose of her body this day past, if that had been their
intention. Nay, ‘twas becoming plain to Robert that the men,
Donnach’s minions, had some other plan in mind for Morgana—at least
before they snuffed the life from her—which would give him the
blessed time he needed to catch and kill them first. Donnach, he’d
leave for his King—and Morgunn—to deal with.

There were already a few lay monks and
brothers moving about the small court, readying for their day’s
labors when Robert passed through leading his steed. One of them,
the youth from the night before, waved to him, then jogged
over.

“There is a small village, some few miles
from here, where your lady and her captors may have taken their
rest. ‘Tis not directly on the road, but off a bit to the north.
There is a footpath to it, just look for an old, gnarled oak that
sports a wooden sign on its trunk with ‘Ale’ scribed on it, and an
arrow pointing to the path.”

Robert gave him a grim nod. “My thanks.
Here,”—he counted out 12 pence from his pouch and handed them to
the lad—” give these to Abbot Alasdair, along with my thanks.”

“Bless you, sire. I shall pray for your
lady, and your victory.”

Robert gave him another grim nod, then
hoisted himself onto his mount and walked the courser out the
gate.

The sun began to rise as he traveled down
the east road, the horizon ablaze in a shimmering gossamer veil of
orange and yellow light. ‘Twas not long until he at last saw the
oak the youth had spoken of and, as he came closer, the path as
well. He veered to his left and maneuvered his courser along the
well-worn, and somewhat o’ergrown trail. He’d traveled nearing a
quarter-hour when, beyond a rise, he beheld in the distance a
cluster of wooden, as well as wattle and daub buildings. The
largest stood, with smoke rising in curls and twists from the
center of its roof, on the east side of the path that continued on
through the village.

Allowing his horse to pick its way down the
path’s incline, Robert took that time to study again the flattened
grass; the infrequent clods of turned-up soil; the fresh horse
tracks in both directions, indicating riders carrying some load had
recently passed there. He was almost certain they were made by the
mounts of the men he hunted, but he would know with certainty once
he spoke to the alewife. And, mayhap, he might learn if the men let
slip their exact destination once their tongues were loosed by
drink.

* * *

By Morgana’s estimation, they’d traveled at
least twelve miles o’er these three hours past, and she had little
doubt they would have traveled further, had the darkness and pots
in the road not slowed their mounts. She strained to remain
forward, upright, and with always some small distance between her
frame and that of her captor’s on the mount she’d been forced to
share with him these long, unending hours since her capture.

Thanks be to heaven that her ploy had
worked, at least the once, and the false priest had let her be, had
molested her no further, but she did not know if ‘twould be as
successful, should she be forced to employ the ruse again.

The time she’d spent bound to the gnarled
oak this night past, not long after her attempt to fight and flee,
had been the only rest Morgana had been able to attain. Her captors
had left her there while they went into the village, down the
rough-hewn path off the east road that led to an alehouse, so they
might engage in a drunken revel, and find provender for them and
their horses. It had surprised her, not an hour after the two men
had left her there, when the red-beard returned for her and, after
threatening to slice out her tongue if she uttered even one sound,
had taken her back to the village with him, where she’d been put
into service pouring ale out for all the patrons at the house.

Aye, but it had proved more of a boon to
Morgana than she’d hoped, for she’d managed to steal a blade from
off one of the tables. Her conscience was sore, and she’d given an
oath to herself that if God allowed her to survive, she’d return
the knife to the yeoman she’d stolen it from, for she knew the
price to replace such a worthy tool would feed the man for near a
moon.

She had no notion of when
she might be able to put the weapon to use, but the having of it
bolstered her lagging courage ne’ertheless.
Do any come for me? Does Robert?
She
wanted desperately to crane her neck around and search the land
behind them, but ‘twould only draw the false priest’s attention,
and no doubt his libidinous wrath as well. Nay, she’d not take that
chance.

‘Twas growing e’er more evident to her that,
if she wanted to remain alive, she was going to have to save
herself. She would look for any opportunity to gain her freedom,
and she’d not hesitate to fight, if that was what was needed. In
spite of the red-beard’s words of the night before, she’d gone into
the village with a clear intention of begging refuge there from
someone of import, of revealing that she was being held captive by
men who intended to murder her. Unfortunately, she’d soon seen her
intention would not be possible. For, there were only the
alewife;—a hard, sharp-eyed woman who had naught to say to anyone
if it did not pertain to fattening her coffers—drunken louts;
ill-mannered boors; poor yeomen and tradesmen passing an hour
there; and a serving maid that Morgana soon saw was serving up more
than ale to the men when the brazen lass had gone out the back,
hanging on the arm of a man, returning not a quarter-hour later,
disheveled, red-cheeked, and limpid-eyed. Nay, Morgana had known
then, in such vulgar company she’d find no protector.

* * *

“Aye, th’ three of ‘em passed time ‘ere
durin’ th’ night, but leeft agin ‘fore th’ cock’s crow, soom three
hours past,” the buxom, black-haired serving wench said, stepping
nearer, so close to him now that he had an unhindered view of the
tops of her creamy-white breasts. “But th’ priest said th’ lass was
to be a maid to th’ red-haired merchant’s betrothed.”

There was a time, before Morgana, Robert
would have easily and gladly accepted the invitation, but now it
served only to grind at his patience. With effort, he held back the
rebuke that formed on his tongue and said instead, “She—the
maid—She was in good health? No wounds or marks upon her?”

“Nay, she was sound. Weel, ‘cept fer a
scratch on her cheek. An’ th’ merchant e’en give ‘er o’er to me ma
to help serve th’ drinkers their ale.”

A scratch?
Anger boiled in his gut. He’d flay them, then
beat them, then kill them.

The wench’s look grew shrewd. “Is she yers
then? Has she ‘scaped yer bed ‘fore ye were doon wit’ ‘er?” Her
long-lashed, glimmering brown eyes scanned with some avarice down
to his groin, tho’ ‘twas well hidden by his tunic and mail “If
ye’ve an itch, pleased I’d be to scratch it, if ye want.” Her gaze
slid to the pouch of coin Robert held loosely in his hand at his
side. “ ‘Tis eight pence a tickle I commonly ask, but fer ye, ‘tis
naught.”

Again, he bit back a sharp retort. “ ‘Tis a
generous and tempting offer you give, lass, but I cannot tarry. I
thank you for sharing what tidings you could regarding the lass I
seek.” Robert fished six pence from his pouch and handed it to her.
“Take this as recompense.” As she avidly counted the coins, he
said, “Tell me, lass, know you where they were heading?”

She looked up and blinked at him, then
answered, “Aye. Aye, they were goin’ to th’ ol’ burial site some
miles distant. Joost follow th’ road east, then look fer th’ ol’
tumbled well, and a few miles past tha’, there be a path to th’
south. Take tha’, and ‘twill lead ye to th’ place.”

With a nod, Robert swung around and mounted
his courser. Once astride, he settled his gaze on the upturned
visage of the wench once more. “My thanks,” he said, and with a dip
of his head, turned and led the horse back toward the east road.
He’d traveled only a few paces when he heard at his back, “Coom
back to see me, if ye should want, and I’ll nay charge ye!”

Robert smiled, in spite of his worry and his
grim mood, and lifted his hand in salute.

‘T
WAS IN THE gloaming by the time Morgana’s captors stopped at
the base of a hillock. This second day of travel, the two men had
been less anxious, had stopped more often to rest their horses, had
not even ridden them hard, which told Morgana that no one had
followed.

For some miles now, a strong sense of
recognition had pervaded her being, and now, seeing the ancient
stones standing tall against the night sky, and the slab that lay
askew atop what she knew to be a hidden underground chamber, her
fragmented memories of this place coalesced. ‘Twas her and the
other clan children’s secret fortress. A place they’d come to play,
to look for fey folk, and to hold their pretend faery court. A
distant cousin, she recalled, always insisted on being king.

But, why had they stopped here? Was this the
burial site of which they’d spoken this day past? Her heart
tripped, then escalated in meter. She’d had it in her head that
‘twould be closed graves they’d bring her to, not here, where the
ancients had held their pagan sacrificial rites.

“They’ll ne’er think to look for her in this
forsaken place,” the false priest said, pulling a flask of water
from his satchel and taking a long swallow before continuing, “But
it grows late, and as we’ve seen no sign of any who follow, I think
it safe to bide the night here before we flee.”

“Where is the load of copper bullion we were
promised at Lenten to do this deed? He will not yet have got the
missive we gave coin to the lad to deliver to him in the last
village we passed through, so he still knows not our plan.”

“ ‘Tis on a ship,
harboured at
Inverleith
, and awaiting our arrival. But we’ll not get our hands on it
until he’s sure his niece is dead, and no one has traced the
vanishing back to him.”

“But if he does not pay...?”

“He’ll pay. He filled my coffers well with
the first of his schemes, and then you reaped the benefit of that
payment to me as well. He shall honor his debt to us, this I vow.”
The false priest pointed to the slab that covered the underground
chambers at the top of the mound. “Move the stone and prepare the
place. I’ll bring her up in a moment.”

The red-beard gave a nod, slid from his
horse, walked it several paces away to one of the standing stones,
tied it there, then lumbered up the incline.

After his cohort was out of earshot, the
false priest slid from his mount, then yanked her by one of her
bound arms, making her topple in an awkward fall forward from the
horse, twisting her still tender ankle yet again, and nearly
spraining it as she plummeted into his rough embrace.

Without mercy, he dragged her with him to
the stone and tied his own mount there as well, then bent down and
pressed his cheek to hers. “I thought to share you with Symon,” he
hissed in her ear, “before we end this ’venture, but I think
now...not.” He gripped her buttocks until they stung, and pressed
her mons into his repulsive arousal. Her gorge threatened to come
up and she shook her head.

His hot serpent’s tongue slashed o’er her
earlobe. “I’ll send him off on an errand later, so that we can be
alone,” he hissed in a whisper.