by Carmen Caine
Isobel clucked. “Can ye get a bairn on your own too, then?”
Merry snorted a little. Isobel had been nagging her more of late. “I’ve already been wed and widowed, ‘twas enough to suffice me. Besides, I dinna want a comfortable, ordered life. Ye know I’m happy as I am.”
The old woman’s forehead knit into a frown. “Love ‘tis what I’m speaking of, lass. Love,” she mumbled, and then with an acid glare, she settled back to doze before the fire.
Merry watched her a moment before turning away.
She had no interest in a husband. After her disastrous marriage, Ruan had promised to let her choose her own husband, if and when she found true love. Mayhap someday, but she hadn’t found love yet, and she hadn’t felt particularly inclined to seek it out either. She quite liked her life, riding Diabhul on the moors, tending to the crofters, and hunting for the clan as needed.
Stretching, she surveyed the hall. The evening feast would start soon. In the corner, several hounds rooted in the rushes for bones. Lads scurried about, lighting the torches on the walls. Already, the servants were setting the tables.
At the far end of the hall, Bree stood, conversing with the ladies circled around her.
Merry winced.
Most likely, they spoke of her, and as they began to move in her direction, Merry moved to make her escape.
Feeling strangely restless, she returned to the sea-gate and taking a boat, rowed to shore. With her thoughts preoccupied by Ewan, she saw Diabhul properly tended to before joining the stable hands for a steaming bowl of herring stew, barley loaf, and a mug of home-brewed ale.
What if Ewan couldn’t escape on his own? What if he’d been injured? Or what if they truly planned to hang him despite his noble blood?
The feud between the Montgomery and Cunningham clans was a vicious and bloody one. The Cunninghams might harm Ewan regardless, earl’s son or no.
Thinking in circles, Merry idly spooned her stew, watching as it slowly congealed before giving up on the notion of eating altogether. Setting her uneaten portion down before a grateful mouser, she made her way back to the castle.
As Lady of Dunvegan, Bree presided in the hall during Ruan’s absence, settling clan disputes as necessary, and judging by the guffaws and wheedling tones coming from the hall, there was a particularly amusing dispute that evening—one likely to keep the clan’s attention for quite some time.
Not in the mood to join in the revelry, Merry headed to her chamber, and closing her eyes, lay back on her heather-filled pallet.
Through the open window, she could hear the gentle lapping of the waves as they mingled with the rise and fall of the afternoon pipes drifting on the wind.
“If only I’d been born a man,” she lamented aloud.
If she were a man, she wouldn’t wait for someone to take action. She owed Ewan a life-debt, and because of that, she’d ride to England and rescue him herself.
The thought gave her pause.
She could wield a weapon as good as any man in the clan, shoot an arrow better, and her skills on the horse were unmatched.
Slowly, she sat up and hugged her legs, resting her chin upon the top of her knees. She could see her reflection in the small polished mirror hanging next to her bed. Large dark eyes stared back at her in a strong-featured face. Her lips were full and carved like marble. Twisting her raven hair back into a tight rope, she analyzed her image critically.
She was unusually tall. Taller than most men, but she couldn’t pass for one, given her delicate complexion.
But if she cut her hair, she just might pass for a lad.
Playing with her locks, she let them slip through her fingers.
Carlisle was a turbulent English town where border warfare raged—a lawless place where one could bribe anyone. No doubt a man such as Gentle John could free Ewan by strength of arms.
But a cunning mind and a few good coins might free him easier ... and sooner.
She made up her mind at once.
Unsheathing a sharp blade, it was only a matter of moments before the last lock of raven hair fluttered to the chamber floor.
It was irregular, not to mention unseemly, for a lass to travel abroad without proper escort, but Ruan had trained her well, and she would travel quickly. Diabhul’s speed was unmatched.
Bree would be distraught and Ruan furious, but she strengthened her resolve. ‘Twas a matter of honor. Ewan had saved her life. She was certain she could save his.
Carlisle was a fortnight away. She would need little coin on the journey down, but a fair amount to actually free him. Wriggling under the bed, she pulled out a small wooden chest and took out a leather pouch. She’d saved quite a bit of coin over the years. Surely, it would be enough. Choosing her heaviest woolen cloak, she quickly sewed the coins into the hem.
And then once again standing before the mirror, she judged her appearance. With her short hair, she was closer to passing for a lad. But she had to hide her breasts. Ripping the corner of the muslin sheet from her bed into strips, she bound her chest as tightly as she could and surveyed the results. With a mischievous grin at the boyish image smiling back at her, she ran her hand through her cropped hair and then, collecting her bow and quiver, set off to borrow a pair of Ruan’s travel breeches.
She visited the castle storeroom next, tiptoeing past ricks of cabbages and sacks of oats to the baskets of hard cheese and thick salted bannocks. Placing her selection in the center of a plaid, she tied the four corners into a neat parcel and hefted it, testing its weight. Satisfied, she drew her hood to hide her shorn head and, keeping to the shadows, slipped out of the castle once again to head for the sea-gate.
She’d just passed the well when she heard the soft sound of padded footsteps behind her. She knew immediately who it was.
“Skulking about now, are ye, Will?” she asked as she turned around.
Skipping out of the shadows, he replied in a loud whisper, “Heading off to England, are ye no?”
Merry arched an amused brow. “A keen eye ye have, lad,” she said, impressed. “Sometimes, I wonder if ye truly are of the fairy ilk.”
They both shared a quiet laugh.
And then, bouncing with excitement, he asked, “Can I come?”
His face fell then as he read his answer in her expression, and it took him a moment to master his disappointment.
Stepping forward, Merry tousled his head fondly. “Next time,” she said, and winked. “Now hie ye off to your mother like a good lad, but not a word of me till the morrow, aye?”
“Aye,” he agreed solemnly, but then gave a reluctant smile.
Shouldering her pack once more, she left him at the well and made her way to where the night watchman stood by the tethered boats.
“Off to tend Diabhul again?” the man asked, a smile creasing his weathered face.
“Aye, he’s a wee bit off his feed,” Merry lied easily enough. Tossing her bow and the pack into the boat, she hopped in after them. “I’ve a mind to sit with him this night and mayhap hunt with the dawn,” she added for good measure.
Behind the watchman’s back, Will grinned and began to dance.
Sending her nephew a warning glare, Merry grabbed the oars and shoved off.
Gray mist consumed her almost at once, but before the sight of Will disappeared into the blanket of fog, she saw his thin arm raise in farewell.
Blowing him a kiss in response, she turned away and set the oars deeper into the water. The boat pitched a little as she strained forward, and excitement tingled through her.
She was really leaving, heeding the call of destiny.
For a brief moment, she felt a pinch of guilt over Ruan and Bree. They would worry, but it would not be for long. She would see Ewan free right quickly and return to Dunvegan before a month had gone.
Diabhul was restless, sensing her excitement as she adjusted the leather straps of her favorite saddle. It was a fine-tooled saddle, inlaid with silver filigree and fit for a nobleman. A gift from Ruan. Secu
ring the last buckle, she led Diabhul from his stall, past the snoring stable lad, and out onto the dirt road.
A heavy fog veiled the village, wrapping the trees and the moss-covered stones in mist. It was so thick that it muffled sound and sight.
No one would see her go.
It was as if fate itself were lending a hand.
Leaving the castle of her birth behind, she set the course south and headed out onto the moors. She rode slowly at first but with increasing speed, knowing Diabhul to be as sure-footed as a mountain goat. She didn’t really need to guide him. They both knew practically every gray boulder and clump of grass dotting the Isle of Skye.
They moved easily through the night, and gradually the horizon turned a dull gray, and when the morning sun pierced the haze, she paused on the edge of a bog filled with bracken and brown reeds. Sliding from her horse's back, she shook off the wet chill of the night’s mist that had seeped through her woolen cloak and then stretched in the sun’s warmth.
Nearby, a burn trickled over the stones.
Removing Diabhul’s bridle, she let the black stallion free to graze on the spring grass and then knelt by the burn to fill her waterskin. The brown water tasted of peat, but it was refreshing all the same.
Most likely, Bree wouldn’t discover her missing until the morrow and mayhap not even till the day after, if Will could keep her secret. Merry often hunted, sometimes staying with the crofters rather than riding home in the dark.
Helping herself to a bannock, she let Diabhul wander a little and eyed the jagged peaks of the Coolins in the distance.
She hadn’t seen Ewan since she was ten. He must have changed. She certainly had. Would she be able to recognize him?
Wiping her mouth on the back of her sleeve, she mounted once again and set off south across the moors. For the most part, she was alone, cantering with her steadfast steed through flocks of grazing sheep, seeing only the occasional turf-roofed croft whose occupants would sometimes wave at her in greeting.
By the early afternoon, she’d reached the sandy swatch of beach across from the castle of Eilean Donan. Gulls reeled overhead, their cries mingling with the keening of the wind as she galloped to the ferry landing.
A short, bald ferryman met her, cocking a wary eye at the dark clouds gathering on the horizon.
“Ye’d best hurry, lad,” he said. “There’s a storm brewing in the east.”
It took her a moment to realize that he was addressing her, and with her best, raspy laugh, she lowered her voice to reply, “And a good day to ye, sir. Might I have passage to the mainland for myself and my horse?”
The man eyed her oddly but accepted the coin readily enough, and feeling foolish, she guided Diabhul onto the ferry. She’d have to play the part of a lad continually now, and she’d do best to remember that.
Holding tightly onto Diabhul’s bridle, she watched the Isle of Skye recede slowly into the fog for a time before shifting her attention to the ferryman.
His hands were work-hardened, a testament to a lifetime of manual labor.
She glanced at her own hands. Whilst not as soft as a proper lady’s, they were hardly the hands of a working lad.
She’d have to choose a name and spin a tale that suited the lad she must be. She couldn’t sing nor play an instrument, so calling herself a wandering bard was out of the question. Mayhap she should play the part of a messenger? Or an apprentice, escaping his cruel master?
Several times, the ferryman appeared as if he wished to talk, but fortunately, there was too much wind to carry on any kind of conversation, and soon enough, they’d reached the opposite shore.
Galloping along the road, she made it a point to avoid the castle of Eilean Donan. It was too risky. The lord and lady knew Ruan well. Instead, she nudged her horse away from the crack of the waves and seabirds floating on the wind, and cantered south toward England.
* * *
Fortune had favored her journey, and masquerading as a lad had been easier than she’d thought it would be. Her unusual height had certainly helped. After a few awkward attempts at speaking in a low voice, she’d given up trying to alter it. No one seemed to question her.
She traveled quickly, and almost a fortnight from when she’d set out from Dunvegan, she arrived at the old Roman road in the borderlands, less than a day’s journey from Carlisle.
With each passing mile, she met more travelers—an old man leading a string of pack-horses, several creaking caravans, and a company of English soldiers, but to her relief, they left her alone, apparently seeing her as a harmless, gangly youth, most likely a messenger, given her quick-footed stallion.
And then finally, she was at Hadrian’s Wall, and reining Diabhul in, she folded her arms and surveyed the town spread out before her.
Overlooking the River Eden, Castle Carlisle stood in the center of the city, a mighty fortress built to bring law and order to the perilous borderlands. Only, the castle itself had only become a cause for more conflict, with the English and the Scots taking turns at besieging it. At present, the castle belonged to the English, but there were still many a Scot to be found in the area—their allegiances carefully guarded.
‘Twas no small wonder the place was a smoldering fire, ready to burst into a raging inferno at any moment.
Slowly, she rode through the town, eyeing the inns before selecting a small wattle-and-daub establishment sagging over the narrow lane at the southern edge of the town. Each floor jutted out over the last, and the entire building leaned precariously sideways, but the location was a superior one. From it, she could escape from town in a hurry, if the need arose.
Seeing Diabhul settled, she pulled a few coins from her pouch and, smoothing her wrinkled shirt, ducked under the iron sign proclaiming the place to be called The Laughing Cockerel.
It had been almost two weeks since she’d had a decent hot meal. She could indulge in that, at least.
She’d avoid the bed later that night, however. As a lad, she’d be expected to share one with at least three other men. It was not a particularly appealing prospect. Instead, she’d sleep in the stables with Diabhul.
The warmth of the inn was a pleasant change from riding in the cold rain and, slipping off her boots, she flexed and stretched her toes out to the fire.
Around her, men and women chatted. She listened for a time, eating a few mouthfuls of mutton stew. But upon learning nothing of use, she put her damp boots back on and decided to survey the castle.
She had to rescue Ewan. She’d thought of nothing else the entire journey from Skye.
But, first she had to learn the exact circumstances of his confinement. She also hoped to find a trustworthy sort—a Scot preferably, who could point out to her those amongst the English guard who could be bribed. The chances of that were not good though, as the Scots who remained after the latest siege were none too keen to take unnecessary risk.
Crossing the market square, her eyes fell upon the market cross.
There, upon its base was nailed a parchment, and her heart stopped.
Ach, she should have thought to come here sooner. ‘Twas likely a notice of pending executions.
Filled with a sense of dread, she ran to the post and scanned the writing.
It was, indeed, a list of those to be hanged at Hairibee the following evening, and with growing trepidation, she ran her finger over the names.
To her utter relief, Ewan’s name wasn’t amongst them, but there was a name she did recognize. Alec Montgomery, the man Ewan had been caught trying to save.
She frowned. Did that mean Ewan was next?
Closing her eyes, she took a deep, calming breath. She didn’t have time to waste. She had to free them both and right quickly!
Steeling her resolve, she headed for the castle.
The river-scented breeze ruffled through her hair as she approached the castle and assessed its walls and the men who guarded them. They were strong, brawny men, but once she had Ewan free, no doubt he’d make short work of them.
But still, there were men standing on the ramparts, and they had bows with menacing arrows ready to fly. She scowled.
“Stay, lad!” a sharp voice hailed her.
Taking a deep breath, Merry turned on her heel to see two English guards coming her way.
“What cause do you have to wander so aimlessly about?” one of them asked in a rough tone.
Thinking quickly, Merry lurched sideways. “Good … good-ay, milord,” she hiccupped with a staggering step.
An expression of disgust crossed the man’s face. “The noon sun has barely risen and the fellow is already drunk,” he observed acidly to his companion.
His companion merely laughed. “Who can blame him?” he asked. “I would give my right hand for a flask of that Rhennish wine.”
At that, the first guard’s expression relaxed. “And wouldn’t we all?”
Without another glance in Merry’s direction, they continued their patrol. She watched them go.
Rhennish wine.
Once, she’d seen Ruan angry with the night watchmen of Dunvegan for partaking of too much Rhennish wine. He’d caught them at the sea-gate weaving unsteadily on their feet, and he’d pushed them into the loch as a reward for their carelessness. After clambering out of the cold waters and begging his mercy, they’d never succumbed to the temptation again.
She’d never forgotten it.
Folding her arms, she tapped her fingers thoughtfully.
Bree had often told her that men were such simple creatures. Mayhap, Rhennish wine could be of aid. And with wine often came other weaknesses, such as women.
With the beginnings of an idea, she retreated to the shadows to watch the guards. And when the afternoon church bells rang, she’d found the thing she’d sought. A particularly comely woman in a green linen kirtle had passed through the castle gates with uncommon ease. Several times.
Following the woman into an alehouse, Merry prepared to approach her, but the woman took note of her first.
“You’re a handsome fellow now,” she called out in a wheedling tone. “Come find me if you need a bedfellow.”