Song of the Highlands: The Cambels (The Medieval Highlanders) (52 page)

‘Twas only in the past hour that he’d risen
up from what e’er dark hole his thoughts had prisoned him and
loosed her bindings again to allow her to move and rub her limbs
long enough to work the cramping and tingling out, before he once
again bound her with the rope.

Her uncle swung toward her suddenly and
paced to the window above her head. He’d done this many times in
the last hours, but this instance was different. This instance
showed more madness. More fever. More fire. More wrath.

“He should have arrived by now.”

By
he
she knew he was speaking of
Morgunn, her father, not Robert, her husband.

“If he does not come
within the next hour... Let us just say, ‘twill not be well for
you.” He blinked down at her with Vika’s dark-fringed amber eyes,
and it set Morgana’s world off kilter.
How
can one so evil own such a comely gaze?
Just as quickly, he turned his vision back to what e’er he
was beholding outside, and she let her lids drop to force her world
back to center.

He turned and resumed his
agitated pacing. After several passes to and fro, her heart settled
back into a regular
thud-thud-thud
, but now her head
pounded to the same rhythm, so she rested it back on the wall
behind her.

“You shall be my bait,
niece,” he said into the rabid silence, and for the third time that
day. Still pacing, he wiped the spittle off the corner of his mouth
with the back of his hand. “Aye...aye. He’ll not want that pretty
neck of yours sliced, that I’d wager my earldom on—if ‘twas still
mine to wager! Aye, you for him, that will be my demand.” His head
bent, he began to mumble to himself once more, and Morgana only
caught fragments of what he said.
“...he’ll not have it...get what he deserves...not let him
win...even tho’ I hang….”

Once again, he flung himself toward the
window, this time leaning his palms on the sill, and stared out.
Coming from directly above her as it was, his labored breathing
sounded even louder, harsher, wetter. Glancing up, she saw the
sheen of sweat on his brow, the beads of it that had collected
above his mouth. Was it worry...or madness?

“Where is that bastard brother of mine! The
archers—”

Morgana’s breath
caught.
Archers?

“—should have weakened their convoy by now,
and he and your libidinous husband should even now be straggling up
the path.”

Was Robert injured? Dead? Morgana had not
allowed the thought to take root in these past hours, tho’ it had
crept into her mind unannounced and unwanted every so often, but
now she could not push it back. For the first time, she fully
considered the fact that this day might truly be her last.

Thus far, she’d not found a way to escape
with her life. She’d had some small bit of opportunity to bash her
uncle o’er the head earlier, but then she’d worried he’d recover
and kill her then and there. Or, if her aim were true, she wouldn’t
be able to get past the two guards at the door. For, even if they
did not hear the sounds of the scuffle coming from within, one of
them had been checking in with her uncle every hour or so, and she
did not want to take the chance that they would fell her with no
further thought, if they found that she’d slain her captor. Nay,
she’d thought ‘twas best to take her chances that her uncle would
do as he’d planned. That he would release her when her father came.
That Robert and her father would vanquish her uncle and his
minions. So, she’d determined ‘twas best to wait for some sign that
Robert and her father were arrived before she joined the fray.

All at once, her uncle pushed himself away
from the window, startling her out of her thoughts. Pivoting and
taking several steps toward the hearth, he continued raging to
himself, saying, “Did the arrows fell them also? Or, is this some
ploy to get me out in the open so that he might slay me before I
can do the deed to him?”

He whipped around again and stormed over to
her, then yanked her from her stool onto her knees, saying, “Pray!”
as he pulled the gag from her mouth. “Pray for my victory, and pray
for your soul before ‘tis too late!”

* * *

When the four warriors drew near their
destination, but still far enough out that the men guarding the
dwelling could not hear or see their approach, Robert signaled
‘twas time to leave their horses behind and move into position so
they might swiftly dispatch the guards in silence, with Donnach
ne’er the wiser ‘til ‘twas too late.

They tied their mounts to trees, doused the
one torch they’d permitted themselves, took several precious
moments to allow their vision to adjust to the pitch darkness, then
took the bend in the path.

When the cot came into view, Robert made the
signal, and the scout, whom he’d learned was known by Hubert du
Valognes, and his son Richard, the stripling, crouched low and,
making a wide arc off the path and around either side of the cot,
ran without sound to take up their bow target positions. When they
were well in place, Guy made the sneezing sound, as planned, in
hopes to draw one, or both, of the guards from his post and out
into the darkness where they would eliminate him.

The ploy worked. From where they stood, they
could hear the low, rumbling voices of the two men, evidently
deciding which of them would be the one to find the source of the
noise, and in the next moment, the taller, stockier, of the two
came striding with a lit torch into the dark toward them.

As the guard approached, Robert moved into
position, and as he did so, he let his gaze track for a heartbeat
to the light coming from the window of the lodge, to the shadowy
figure that moved within, and sent up an unuttered prayer that
Morgana was still alive, and unharmed.

He waited until Guy was almost within the
circle of light the torch provided, then he pounced from behind,
covering the man’s mouth with his hand and rending his throat with
his dagger at the same time, sending him to the bowels of hell
before he could make a sound, before he could even ken his own
demise. Quietly, Robert lowered him to the ground.

Robert remained in that crouched position,
using the sleeve of his foe’s shirt to rid the blood from his
blade, as he gave a nod to Guy.

Guy returned the nod, took the torch from
him, then walked toward the cabin with his dagger drawn and the
light away from his face so that the man guarding the door would
believe ‘twas his confederate returning.

In the meantime, Robert moved further into
the shadows, then made his way as well closer to the cot. Blood
pumping more with anticipation than dread for the coming conflict,
it took all his will to keep from rushing the moment to its final
conclusion.

* * *

Positioned as she was
below the window, Morgana could hear the infrequent murmurings of
the two men that guarded the door. The one speaking now sounded
uneasy. She strained to discern the words...something...something
about a noise they’d heard. Her pulse pounded. Could it be Robert,
here at last?
Had
he brought with him her father, as per her uncle’s orders?
‘Twas truth, she knew not which she hoped for more: That he’d
obeyed his demand, or defied it.

She’d prayed aloud, as her uncle had
demanded, for she’d had no choice, tho’ asking for his victory in
this had been a bitter tincture on her tongue, and she could only
find solace in the knowledge that the Heavenly Father knew what was
truly held in her heart, no matter the words spoken.

Everything went deathly quiet outside.

Her uncle stopped his pacing and looked
toward the window.

He took a step toward it.

Morgana screamed.

The door flew open.

Robert burst through the door, sword
raised.

Her uncle’s steel flashed, sang when he
freed it from its sheath, but still he staggered back.

A tumult of men’s horses came from outside
the cot.

Robert maneuvered, slowly, deliberately, to
the side so that he still faced her uncle, but had the view through
the opened doorway in his sights as well.

Her father barreled through the door.

“How—?” Robert said.

Her father’s eye ne’er leaving her uncle, he
said, “We were summoned to court. We met the King and his men on
the road. He told me all.” He took a menacing step toward her
uncle. “Get her out of here, I’ll handle my brother.”

Robert hesitated, but only briefly, then
stepped over to Morgana, lifted her from her stool into his
arms.

“Nay!” her uncle bellowed. “This was not how
‘twas to be!” He moved with menace toward Robert, but her father
stepped into his path.

Her uncle raised his sword as if to strike,
but Morgana saw the terror in his eyes, and realized that he would
only do so if pressed for his life.

Robert swung her around and strode from the
cot. Briefly, and only from the corner of her eye, she saw the
dark, crumpled shape of one of the guards, on his haunches, slumped
against the exterior wall with his head forward, as if asleep.
Morgana knew otherwise. He was dead. Dead as her uncle would surely
be in the next moment or so. She also knew, that if ‘twas not
night, she’d see the blood that soaked the guard’s skin and
clothing as well. A shudder ran through her, and she turned her
head into Robert’s neck, pressing her lids into the stubbled skin
under his chin. His arms tightened around her back and knees, his
hand gripped tighter her arm, but still he said naught, only moved
inexorably down the path toward the shadowed group in the
distance.

Someone ran up to them and when he spoke,
she recognized the voice.

“She lives?” Guy said.

“Aye.”

“Praise be. The King insists Donnach Cambel
be brought to him alive. Where is Morgunn?”

“Battling him even now, I expect,” Robert
replied, and with little concern in his voice.

“Will you stop him, or will I?”

“I hope the deed’s done.”

Morgana heard Guy’s retreating footsteps as
he pounded up the path toward the cot. Robert continued his journey
forward.

* * *

Guy skidded to a halt in the doorway of the
cot. Morgunn had Donnach pinned on the floor, the point of his
sword pressing into the man’s tunic, directly o’er his heart. A
pace from Donnach’s hand lay a dirk, and by the scatter of hunting
blades fallen to the floor, ‘twas evident that there had been an
abortive struggle for one of them. There was blood running from
Donnach’s ear and nose, a consequence of a beating got from the
broad side of Morgunn’s blade, as the streaks and dabs of wet,
vivid red upon it proved.

“This.... This, you puling, fetid coward, is
for letting that Armoric swine rape and scar my wife!” In the blink
of an eye, he hefted the sword with the intent to impale.

“Nay!” Guy shouted, and flew forward,
crashing into Morgunn, making Morgunn lose his balance and his aim
on his victim’s frame.

Morgunn turned a feral gaze on Guy. “Stay!”
he bellowed, pressing the weight of his booted foot down on Donnach
when Donnach tried to roll out of range. Tho’ his eyes remained on
Guy, Guy knew the words were meant for Donnach. Morgunn’s next
words, however, were clearly for him. “There is no mercy to be
found here. Leave me to it, or I swear by my sword, I will cut you
down as well.”

Guy took a step back, put some distance
between himself and Morgunn, but said, “The King demands Donnach be
brought to him alive. You know this. You must.”

Guy saw the doubt that flickered in
Morgunn’s eyes, and he pressed on, saying, “ ‘Twill be a much
better, a much more deserved punishment to have Donnach withstand
the shame of being publicly tried and hanged for his crimes.
Surely, you see I speak the truth.”

Morgunn did not move. Guy could see the
tension in the man, manifested in the pulse point in his jaw, in
the flaring of his nostrils, in the flexing of his fist on the hilt
of his sword, in the rapid movement of his chest and shoulders as
he inhaled and exhaled.

“What good is done if your daughter loses
her father a second time—and to disgrace and dishonor as well?”

Finally—and after such a prolonged moment
that Guy had begun to believe he would have to battle Morgunn for
his sword—Morgunn stepped away from his quarry. Guy went
immediately into action. He bound Donnach’s wrists behind his back,
bound his ankles as well, then called out the door for aid from one
of his guard to get the man onto the cart. For he held little faith
that Morgunn’s assent would hold if Guy solicited his help with
their felon.

He followed his men out,
walking toward the gathering of soldiers, toward the King, and
‘twas not long before he heard the crunch of Morgunn Cambel’s
bootsteps coming from behind him as well.
Good.
He would leave to him all
explanations required by King William.

As he stood with arms akimbo watching his
men load the trussed Donnach Cambel onto the cart, the low rumble
of Robert’s words to Morgana came to him from somewhere behind: “
‘Tis done. At last, you are safe.”