Song of the Highlands: The Cambels (The Medieval Highlanders) (8 page)

She heard a low moan and the sound of
rattling chains coming from another chamber. Panic filled her
breast. “Mama!” she mouthed the word without realizing she'd done
so. There was something about this place, these sounds, that
niggled at her memory, that brought forth some hidden fear in
her.

The violence of the sudden quakes and
shudders that took hold of her frame sent her reeling. She fell
hard against the two cold stone walls that met behind her, making
her bite down on the inside of her cheek and delivering a new wave
of searing pain through her system. The hurt sent the phantom fear
flying, but brought the misery of her circumstances back to her
threefold. Tears formed in her eyes as she gingerly returned to her
former position.

Both the earl and the priest had taken turns
with the crop. Her back felt afire and she wondered if they’d
broken the skin; if blood had been let as well.

‘Twas her penance, this mortification of the
flesh, to cleanse her of her impurity. To teach her to honor the
Lord’s will and follow the righteous path. To wed the man whom she
had allowed to desecrate her.

All at once, she heard a mighty scuffle just
outside her door. There was a brief, loud, startled-sounding yell
from her gaoler, a muffled
thud
, but then all was silent
once more.

She heard the scrape of a key turning in the
lock before the door was flung wide. She squinted and blinked as
harsh light came through the opening.

A tall, broad man stood in the entrance. The
glow of the torch was behind him, so she could not see his face.
Robert!
Joy filled her as she struggled to rise, but her
heart sank when ‘twas Guy de Burgh’s voice she heard saying,
“Please, allow me to aid you,” as he took three long strides toward
her and extended a hand. She let her friend help her to her
feet.

“The guard has been taken care of, but we
must make haste if I am to get you free of here before he
wakes.”

Morgana’s brows slammed together in
confusion, but she allowed Guy to lead her out of her gaol and into
the brighter corridor.

“I’ve a plan, Morgana. We’ll hie ourselves
to my holding and wed on the way. I know Bishop Richard de Prebenda
in Dunkeld quite well, and I’ve no doubt he’ll bless the vows.”

Morgana shook her head and stepped away from
Guy.

Guy took both her hands in his and said,
“But do you not see? This is the best solution for all. I will give
your uncle a very generous bride price for you and you will then be
well-wed, as your uncle wants.”

Morgana’s head had not stopped shaking
throughout Guy’s speech. She yanked her hands from his grasp and
pointed toward the entry to the stair. When he didn’t budge, when
he continued to give her a pleading look, she jabbed her finger
three times in the same direction she pointed, then stomped her
foot for emphasis.

“What if…. I know of the debt your lover
has, and is trying to pay to King William. I also know that he’s
been given only three moons in which to pay the balance of it.
He’ll not be able to do that with only his winnings from the
tourneys he’s been in, so he’s scouting for an heiress. I’ll pay
his debt—all of it—if you’ll agree to wed me.” ‘Twas the least he
could do in any case, since ‘twas his vile behavior when he was
still a squire, a lad of seventeen summers, toward Robert’s sister,
Isobail, that had been the cause of old Laird MacVie’s unrelenting
war against the de Burgh’s, even after Guy’s father had abandoned
his own desire for the fight.

Morgana’s jaw dropped. She stared at her
friend, trying to gauge if he truly had meant what he’d said.

Guy smiled and nodded.

Thoughts flew ‘round in Morgana’s head, so
quickly, she became dizzy from them. Even were Robert’s woes not a
problem, she’d still not let her uncle force a wedding on him; one
he clearly had no desire for, as he’d so bluntly told her at the
cot.

But she might be able to help him—help his
clan—and then, mayhap, he would find contentment, stop worrying so,
enjoy his life a bit.

As she continued to think it through, she
nibbled on her lower lip and gazed, unseeing, at the floor. She
liked Guy. He’d been kind to her when so many of the other knights
had ignored her. She lifted her gaze to him. He was a good choice
for husband. Better than she had e’er dreamed of having, in fact. A
slow smile spread o’er her countenance and she began to nod,
unhurried at first, but then e’er faster.

Guy grinned and took hold of her hand. “Let
us make haste, then. Worry not, I shall send a missive to your
uncle informing him of our marriage as quickly as ‘tis done.” He
looked down at her bedraggled clothing. “I wish we had time for you
to retrieve another gown, but we do not.” He shrugged. “We shall
simply make haste to obtain one for you upon arriving at the
village outside of Dunkeld.”

Morgana nodded.

Guy turned then and, with her trembling hand
still clasped in his, he led her down the stairs. It seemed only
minutes later that they were settled on their mounts and Guy was
speaking to the guard at the gate. The guard, unaware of which lady
Guy was traveling with, allowed them to exit with no question.

R
OBERT SETTLED ON
the ground next to the fire he’d built a while past. His journey to
the nearby holding had been unsuccessful. Not because the lady had
little desire to wed him, but because the father had no desire to
give his daughter up to him. He was full aware, it seemed, of all
of Robert’s debts and troubles.

And he would have been back at the abbey by
now, if his horse had not gone lame from a stone caught in his
shoe. He’d gotten the stone out, but the horse’s hoof was still a
bit hot, so Robert thought better of continuing the journey without
first allowing the animal a long rest.

Robert sighed and scrubbed his hands o’er
the tired muscles in his face. ‘Twas going to be harder than he’d
first thought to find another heiress within the allotted time. But
find one, he must. It mattered little at this point the lady’s age,
looks, or character. As long as there was a fortune attached, he’d
take her. He’d worry about his lack of heir later. ‘Twas too much
for him to ponder now.

But his return to the abbey sooner than he’d
hoped would allow him to do the thing he’d been fighting his
conscience not to do since watching the earl haul Morgana off her
palfrey this day past: Go to her and see how she fared. If he could
conceive of a way to steal her from that dungeon and speed her off
to safety, he’d do that as well. But, at least at present, he’d not
been able to think of one that would not end in his losing all hope
of saving his clan when he was hung from a gibbet for his
crime.

* * *

A shuffle of feet sounded close to the tent
Robert had erected with the heavy wool plaid he carried tied behind
his saddle. On instant alert, Robert drew his dirk, scrambled to
one knee, ready to strike. So caught up in dire thoughts had he
been that the trespasser was full upon him before Robert had marked
his presence. Giving a silent growl deep in his throat at his own
stupidity, Robert gripped the hilt of his blade with more
force.

“Whoa, friend,” The man said, skidding to a
halt with his palms out in front of him, showing Robert that he
carried no weapon, when he saw Robert’s intent to strike. “I but
saw the glow of your fire, and hoped only to share the heat of it
this frore night in exchange for a bit of ardent spirits I’ve brung
from my homeland.”

Robert eyed the man from top to bottom,
noting first the tangled skeins of silver-yellow hair, coming from
beneath the hood of his finely-made fur-lined cloak, that hung down
against the sand-and-wheat colored bristles on his chin; the
crystal-blue eyes that held a hint of humor, and no rancor; the
sword sheathed at his side, its hilt jutting from one side of the
cloak. At last, his sharpened sights settled on the man’s
boots—clearly North-man made. His gaze returned to the intruder’s
as Robert slowly sheathed his weapon and settled back to sit again.
“What are you called?” he asked as he indicated with a nod that the
man should join him. He was not fully convinced of the man’s benign
intent, but he would share the fire and test his purpose.

The man grinned, and Robert could not help
but notice the whiteness, the straightness of the man’s teeth. “My
thanks, and I am called Grímr, Grímr Thorfinnsson,” he said, and
quickly—and much too carelessly for Robert to become
alarmed—unsheathed his sword and lay it on the ground, then settled
at Robert’s left, facing him.

“Where is your horse?”

The man jerked his head toward the darkness
beyond the fire and said, “I’ve tied it to the same tree as yours
now is.”

“What brings you to the King of Scots
court?” Robert was only guessing at this by a very slight degree,
as ‘twas plain the man was of some wealth, and there was no doubt
at all, by the fineness of his weapon, that he was a warrior as
well, which meant to Robert that he no doubt intended to enter a
tourney or two. Although, ‘twas a bit odd that he traveled alone,
hence a bit of uncertainty, and suspicion, remained in Robert
regarding that conclusion.

In answer, the man took out the skin of
drink and two silver bowls from the pouch strapped around his
shoulder, poured out some sweet-smelling brew into each, handed him
one, drank fully of the other, then, as Robert did the same, said,
“I come to retrieve my woman.”

The back of Robert’s throat closed up and he
held his breath to keep from humiliating himself by coughing.
Blood of Christ. What is in this brew, goat piss and rotted
pippins?
Instead of making an answer, he simply nodded and
wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Finally, the burn
receded and he was able to speak. “I was sure you were going there
to compete in the tourneys.”

“Nay, I’ve a fight enough on my hands, once
I find my woman, to bring her to heel.”

This made Robert grin in spite of his dour
mood. “They can be a handful.”

The man’s easy grin flashed again as he gave
a nod of his head, and said, “Aye, that be truth. Both in the good,
and the bad way, I trow,” and Robert was reminded of his longtime
friend, Callum MacGregor. That memory, along with the pleasant
vapors the man’s brew produced in him, brought about a sudden sense
of kinship with him that would usually take years to engender in
Robert otherwise, and he grinned himself, saying, “What do you call
this spirit you have shared this night?”

The man shrugged, grinned even broader, and
poured them both some more. “We call it
björr
.”

“
Björr
,” Robert repeated, then drank
his second bowlful down and wiped his mouth again on the back of
his hand. The burn wasn’t so great this time, nor the taste either.
“ ‘Tis good.”

“Aye.”

‘Twas not long after the third bowlful that
the both of them were nodding off into slumber where they sat, but
before they did, Robert said, “I am called Robert MacVie, Laird and
Chieftain to the clan MacVie. My lands are west of here near
Cruach na Beinne
and the
Uisge Abha
. You will always
be welcome there.”

“I doubt I shall e’er find myself in those
parts, but I thank you for your generosity, friend MacVie, and I
shall return that invitation to you as well. My lands are on the
northwestern isle of
Leòdhas
. You will always be welcomed
there.”

Something niggled at Robert’s memory
regarding that place, but so full of drink and so weary of spirit
was he that the thought drifted away before he could capture it.
I will think more on it on the morrow.
But, when the morrow
came, when the morn dawned, his friend of the north was gone, and
all that remained in his mind of their conversation was the man’s
name, that of the thick-head producing brew, and a vague
recollection of inviting him to be his guest at a holding he had
every belief he’d not be in possession of for more than a few more
sennights’ time.

Robert moaned low in his throat and dropped
his sore pate into his hands. He was even more of a fool than he’d
been trying to talk himself out of believing himself to be these
past moons.

He made quick work of pulling down the tent
and tying the blanket back in its place on his horse.

Aye, fool he may be, but he’d not quit his
efforts. He owed his clan his loyalty and, aye, even his life.

* * *

Guy and Morgana were almost to Dunkeld
nearing dawn, when they were overtaken by her uncle and twelve of
his soldiers. If ‘twere not for Guy’s immediate offer of a bride
price for her, Morgana was sure her uncle would have had him
hanged, drawn and quartered where they now stood.

But, much to Morgana’s relief, the bloodlust
left her uncle’s eye when the offer was made.

Donnach Cambel turned his gaze to his niece.
“Come here, Morgana. Stand beside me.” When she and her palfrey
were safely settled next to his own, he returned his gaze to her
Norman companion. “She’s to wed Robert MacVie in two days’ time in
the chapel of the abbey at Scone.”

Morgana’s head jerked around, her eyes wide
as she stared at her uncle. He had already contracted the chapel?
He must be as certain that she would agree to wed Robert as she was
that she would not.

“But what does Robert MacVie have to offer
her?” Guy shrugged, shaking his head. “Naught—less than—as I’ve
heard tell of it.”

“ ‘Tis of no consequence. The lass must wed
her seducer. ‘Tis as the Lord wills it.” The Norman and his family
had the ear of both King William, and through the Earl of Pembroke,
King John of England as well—a much too dangerous alliance for
Donnach’s ends. Nay, ‘twas the better, safer way for him to hie his
niece off to the almost destitute MacVie holding. For, if the lass
e’er did regain her memory, she could cause him a great deal of
trouble. Trouble Donnach had only barely been able to avoid with
the King thirteen years past when all eyes turned on him after the
attack on his brother and his family. An attack that ended in
bloodshed and death.