His sense of duty to Robert tugged at his chest. After the feelings he had experienced thinking Elen had betrayed him, his sense of loyalty was even stronger. He had promised to fetch the girl when word was sent.
Again, he looked down the mountain. Elen lay back there... Elen and the truth.
Duty...
Elen...
Munro knew what he wanted to do, but also what he must do. He caught his pony's reins and slowly turned west again, headed into the Grampian Mountains.
* * *
"Ye imbecilic cur!"
Elen's head throbbed, but she immediately recognized the pain as being different from her headaches. This was not a headache she was coming out of. This was something else.
Voices floated downward. They seemed to spin and turn around her like falling leaves on a blustery day.
"What did I tell ye to do with her? What did I say?"
A woman's voice circled Elen and pierced her consciousness. She thought she knew that voice, but she could not quite put her finger on it. The pressure of the pain in her head was too great.
"And now what do ye think we must do with her?" the voice said. "What if someone saw ye haul her arse in here? What then?" The woman's shrill voice went on and on, occasionally interspersed by a lower rumble. The second voice was male, but she could not understand what he was saying.
Elen wanted to open her eyes, but they felt as if they were held down by lead weights. Maybe she was dead and someone had placed coins over her eyelids. She was cold enough to be dead. Wet enough to be dead and rotting. And there was something hard and cold behind her, beneath her. Her coffin?
The voices came and went, though she thought it was perhaps her mind that came and went, rather than the people. Eventually Elen gave up trying to open her eyes and just tried to think.
What had happened to her?
Bits and pieces of things people had said to her, things she had done, flashed through her head.
She and her love in the bathtub. But what was his name?
The nicker of a pony.
Snow on her face.
She and her love on the bed.
Munro... He was Munro.
And the pony was called... She could not remember the pony's name.
Again, she felt the cold snow on her face. Pain had preceded the snow. Had someone shot her?
Nay... hit her.
She had been talking to someone just before it happened. She was riding that spotted pony.
Then suddenly it all came back to her and her eyes flew open as she struggled to her feet. "Rosalyn," she screamed. Her voice reverberated painfully in her head. It reverberated in the tiny, dank, dark room that surrounded her.
"I see my dear sister has come awake," Rosalyn said to Cerdic.
Elen looked upward toward the light and realized where she must be. In Rancoff's oubliette, a bit like her own prison, with only one way out—upward.
"What have ye done?" Elen called up. Her head hurt so badly when she lifted her chin that she thought she might pass out from the pain. She leaned against the wall for support. She didn't know what was going on. Had she been wrong about Finley? Was Finley innocent? Had it been Cerdic who tried to kill Munro? If it was, her sister had to be in on it.
Of course Rosalyn was in on it. Elen should have guessed.
Rosalyn gazed downward. Rancoff's pit was not as deep as Dunblane's, but deep enough.
"Consider yourself lucky," Rosalyn snipped. "Ye were supposed to be dead, only my slack-faced husband here nae had the stones to do the job." She reached out and slapped Cerdic.
He did nothing but hang his head, and Elen felt a strange pity for him. She hated him, but still she felt for him. "Cerdic," she called up. "Ye know ye willnae get away with this. If Munro and I both die, the king will investigate. He will—"
"Shut up," Rosalyn shouted. "Ye hear me? Ye shut up, or I will come down there and shut ye up myself. Permanently." Rosalyn turned to Cerdic. "Go to our chamber and wait for me there."
"But love, she must be cared for. The wound to her head. Ye must give her food and drink. Blankets—"
"Go," Rosalyn bellowed.
"No, Cerdic," Elen pleaded. "Please dinnae go. Nae leave me here." Elen watched as Cerdic disappeared, and she heard the storeroom door close. That was where the oubliette in Rancoff was—in the floor of a storeroom just off the entrance. Munro had told her that. With the heavy door shut and her below ground, no one in the keep would hear her calls. No one.
"I warn ye," Rosalyn said. "Ye keep quiet or I shut this door and I never come in again. Nae until ye are nothing but a rotting pile of bones."
"Ye said Cerdic had naught to do with it," Elen said softly, still not believing her own ears. "Ye let me think it could be Finley."
Rosalyn laughed and the candle she held in her hand swayed, dragging the feeble light that fell into the oubliette back and forth. "Oh, 'twas Finley, too. Ye know, ye never should have spurned him the way ye did. Ye broke the mon's heart." She laughed.
"Is he dead?" Elen asked, sinking to the floor for fear she would fall. Her despair was so thick at this moment that she could taste its bitterness. "Is Munro dead?"
"If he isnae, he will be soon. By your orders."
Elen glanced up at her sister's silhouette above her. The torchlight was so bright above and the oubliette was so dark. She shaded her eyes with her hand. "My orders?"
"The two brothers. Finley gave them word to kill your husband and do it quietly. He vowed 'twas by your orders, and they are so loyal to ye that they set out to do it."
Elen lowered her head. "Nay," she whispered. "It cannae be true."
"Ah, but 'tis true. Now I must go tend to my husband and make him content. Good night, sister."
Leaning on the wall, Elen shakily got to her feet. "Rosalyn. Ye cannae do this. Ye cannae leave me here in the dark. I am your sister. A clansman. Your blood," she begged. "For Papa—"
Rosalyn's only response was the sound of the door closing and the total darkness that ensued.
* * *
Just after nightfall, exhausted beyond thought, Munro reined in his pony and chose a spot to spend the night. Even in the best circumstances, it was dangerous for a man to camp alone in the mountains. Considering these circumstances, it was suicidal. What if someone had been sent to kill him? What if they could see him now?
Anger brought heat to Munro's face. He pulled his saddle off his tired pony, gave her some of the grain he had brought for her in a saddlebag, and removed her bridle. Next, he gathered what relatively dry wood he could find in the darkness. Using the flint and steel and the wool scraps he carried in his personal bag, he started a fire. In front of a boulder, he laid out a burgundy and green plaid blanket, and beside it, his broadsword and his halberd. He melted some snow in a small pan, gave the pony water, and heated more snow for tea. Then he sat down with a cup of herbed water and waited for the bastards he had a feeling were coming his way.
The half moon was out full and bright when Munro sensed rather than heard or saw the intruder.
The hair on the back of his neck rose, then bristled. His pony lifted her head and glanced at the trail. Munro slid his hand across the blanket he rested upon and laid it on the halberd, his choice of weapon when he had a choice, though he was just as good with the broadsword. The halberd, a battle-ax and a pike set on a pole near as tall as he, could take a man's head off, or his arms and legs first. Or, if he was so inclined, he could simply run a man through and impale him on a tree. It took a great deal to anger Munro, but when he finally did grow angry, no one had best step in his path.
With one hand, Munro sipped his tea from a battered cup. His other hand closed over the halberd.
As Munro waited, he tried to imagine who came through the darkness. Would it be his brother? He tried to imagine Cerdic against him in battle. Surely Cerdic wouldnae try something so foolish as a one-on-one battle with Munro. Cerdic had never been good with even a broadsword. Munro thought of Elen. He tried to
imagine her hurling herself at him, swords in both hands.
Instead, he thought of her naked, coming to him, standing in the morning light that poured in a window, her waist-length red and golden hair falling like a curtain around her.
Munro groaned. Those were not the kind of thoughts a man should carry into battle. Thoughts such as those could only—
His clever attacker came from behind over the rock Munro rested against, swinging long-bladed swords in each hand. As Munro bounced to his feet, he half expected to see his wife.
It was Finley.
"Ye?" Munro said, narrowly avoiding the tip of one of his opponent's swords as he put the small campfire between them.
"Make this easy or make this difficult for yourself," Finley shouted, spittle flying from his mouth as he swung the swords like a madman. "Ye took her from me, and now I will take ye from her," he shouted.
Snow fell from overhead as his voice reverberated in the treetops.
"Then she didnae send ye?"
"I thought to tell ye that," Finley said, easing his way around the fire. "To make ye think it was she who ordered your death. But I wanted ye to know it was me. All me, the steward. A lousy steward will cut ye in half and send ye to hell, Rancoff."
Relief and sweet joy flooded Munro's thoughts. He wanted to drop to his knees and thank sweet Jesus. Elen had not betrayed him. In the end, he had been right to listen to his heart.
But he could not think of that now. Now he had to defend himself so he could go home to Elen and beg her forgiveness.
Munro was surprised by how well Finley swung his swords. For a steward, he was remarkable. Whoever taught him had taught him well.
Munro feinted one way and then the other, playing the defense rather than the offense. Finley swung as if some mad fever possessed him.
"I love her," Finley declared. "I loved her since she was a child."
"I love her, too," Munro said quietly, never permitting his gaze to stray from Finley's. "She is my wife."
"She will be your widow," he spat and lunged forward.
Munro managed to cut right, and once again avoided the point of his opponent's sword, but Finley was backing him off the small clearing into the woods.
"Surrender and it will be quick and painless," Munro declared. "I will take off your head and leave ye for the wolves."
"I was thinking to tell ye the same."
Finley swung one of the swords over his head and Munro lifted his halberd to block the blade. At the same time, Finley lifted the other sword and caught Munro in the arm.
The wound flowered red.
"Bastard," Munro muttered. He did not want to kill Finley, but he would if he had to.
Finley swung again, but this time Munro came around him. Snow flew in great puffs, and both men were now breathing heavily.
"Give in," Munro urged, "whilst ye still have your head."
"Nay. Never."
Munro took one step forward, bent low, and swung his halberd outward. The pike clipped the steward behind the knees, and Finley's eyes widened as he was thrown forward.
Suddenly, behind him, Munro heard someone crashing through the trees from the west.
"Banoff! John!" Finley cried out, spotting the intruders first. "Bring him down. Bring him down!"
Munro swung around, putting Finley on the ground on his left as he lifted his weapon. Three against one? For the first time, he considered he might not survive to walk off this mountain.
"Nae fear us, m'lord," Banoff shouted, his broadsword drawn. "We knew better than to think m'lady would send us to kill ye. 'Tis not in her heart." The big man came crashing out of the dark forest. "We followed ye to be certain ye were safe, then came around when we spotted Finley. My brother thought him up to no good."
Munro considered it might be another ruse, but the look in the Burnards' eyes spoke of truth.
Finley attempted to get to his feet, but Munro knocked one sword and then the other from his hands. The steward threw himself facedown in the snow. "Do it," he sobbed. "Kill me now and be done with it."
"Nay, I will not kill ye," Munro growled, so angry with this man that he wanted to kill him. His anger stemmed not so much from the attempts on his life, but for making him doubt his wife.
"Ye will not?" Finely whined.
"Nay," Munro spit in disgust. "Instead, these fine men will aid me in taking ye up and over the mountain. King's men wait there, and they will be more than happy to carry ye to trial."
Finley broke into sobs as Banoff and his brother moved forward with ropes to tie the prisoner.
Munro carried his halberd back to the fire and heated more water.
Chapter 28
Elen had little way of knowing how many days had passed. Without the benefit of any light, there was no nighttime, no day, only endless cold and darkness. The only way she could guess at the passage of time was by how often Rosalyn came to the prison pit to throw down a skin of water and perhaps a heel of bread.
Rosalyn refused to speak to Elen of any matter beyond what soup she and Cerdic had shared for the midday meal or what embroidery she was stitching. When Elen tried to question her as to what had become of Munro, her sister merely closed the door. Not once in all those days had Rosalyn sent Cerdic to deliver food or water—for fear she might coerce information from him, Elen supposed.
Rosalyn had come at least a dozen times, and the hours that dragged between those visits seemed endless. By the fourth time Rosalyn came, Elen was almost thankful to see her. By the sixth, as ridiculous as it seemed, she looked forward to the visits.
Twelve visits. Nearly a fortnight, Elen guessed. Surely now her clansmen at Dunblane were looking for her, sending search parties into the mountains. By now, surely Munro should have returned home with the king's daughter... unless he had not survived the trip.
Elen did not let herself consider that possibility often; she knew she would shrivel and die if she did. Munro was a warrior. His ability with a broadsword was beyond compare, her father had once told her. Surely he would be able to fight off and kill Banoff, John, and Finley. But that was three men against one—
No, Munro would survive. He would kill them all, fetch the king's daughter and ride home—to kill her.
Elen spent hours, days, playing out various scenes. What if Munro was looking for her now just so he could hang her for sending her men after him to kill him? But what if he had gone back into the mountains, found no evidence of her, and given her up for dead, lost, or eaten by wolves?
Not knowing was what made the time pass so slowly. Not knowing Munro's fate. Not knowing what her own would be.
And then there was matter of her headache. It had not come. After the fifth or sixth daily visit, Elen had begun to anticipate the pain. She had curled up in the single woolen blanket her sister had tossed her, and she had waited, almost in anticipation. At least with the headaches, she was only semiconscious of the world around her. Right now, she could have used a little semi-consciousness.
For two days, Elen had lain on the frigid stone floor and waited for the pressure, the blinding pain. It had not come. Not the pain. Not the bleeding that always followed.
After the tenth visit, ten days in the prison cell, Elen knew she had a secret. A secret that made her smile despite the cold, the hunger, the fear for Munro and for her own fate.
She was pregnant. She was carrying Munro's baby. And she was overwhelmed by a sense of tenderness, of excitement she had not known she could possess.
She had to find her way out of this. Of course, there was no way out. Instead, she had to believe Munro was alive, that he would figure out what had happened and would come for her. She had to pray God would see her through.
Sitting in the corner in the darkness of her tomb, Elen drifted in and out of sleep. Her hand planted firmly on her flat stomach, she wondered if she would have a boy or a girl.
* * *
Munro quickly discovered he was not in as much control of his life as he liked to believe. And as h
e rode out of the snowy mountain pass a full fortnight after he had left Dunblane, he wondered if this, too, was not one of God's little lessons. Just when a man thought he controlled his own destiny, God proved him wrong.
The snowstorm hit just as Munro and the men arrived at the meeting place. With Finley tied like a calf over his own mount, they had reached the small keep belonging to one of King Robert's distant cousins just as the curtain of snow fell upon them. It snowed for four days, and when it finally ceased, Munro found himself snowed in with a handful of the king's men, a petulant eighteen-year-old lass who did not wish to go with him, and a ranting lunatic who had once been his wife's steward.
Finley had lost his mind. There was no question about it. They had been forced to tie him to a post in the stable to prevent him from hurting himself. He had begun ranting and raving when Munro and the brothers had joined forces to fetch the king's daughter, and the man had not ceased babbling since.
After two days of clear weather, Munro insisted he had to return to Dunblane. The king's men had agreed to take Finley to Inverness for trial or to the insane asylum, if that was where he belonged, and Munro had washed his hands of the man. Part of him regretted not killing Finley with his own sword for his betrayal of Elen, but part of him was thankful. He prayed his days of killing were over.
The king's daughter, Anne, had not taken to the thought of traveling through the snow, walking most of the way to Dunblane, but Munro didn't care what the chit wanted. He wanted to go home, drop to his knees, and beg his wife's forgiveness, and Anne was stuck going along with him. As they trudged through the snow, making very slow progress day after day, the lass had worn on him.
At first he had liked her. She reminded him so much of Elen, a young, headstrong woman full of opinions that were actually worth hearing. But she could also, like his wife, get on a man's nerves. Nothing suited her. No one could do anything to her expectations, and she had no qualms about making her disappointments known to all. This morning Munro had threatened that if she opened her mouth again, he would tie one of her woolen scarves around her mouth. At last, she had shut up—at least for the time being.
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