The political battles didn't bother Matthew. Those were always being fought over some issue. It was something subtler. His thoughts wandered back to the village a few days before and the search for warriors who had been harassing English troops. They were there, he was sure of it. Matthew thought of the strange girl with the odd eyes, a family defect she'd said; whatever that meant. Something clicked in his memory and he recalled an even earlier conversation in a London inn. The conversation ran through his memory while it seemed to take him forever to place his cup on the worn, stained table.
He slowly stood and his scowl turned even darker. He knew what was wrong. “That bloody Scot!” With each word, his voice rose in anger and the room suddenly became quiet. All heads turned in his direction. “Be ready to ride within the hour,” he ordered his men. He didn't care that it was late, or the fact his men were on the edge of drunkenness. He could only think what had slipped through his fingers that day in the village. Everything about the girl fit the description the Scot had given him, except her eyes. He thought he might have recalled the one detail incorrectly, or perhaps the Scot had lied to anyone else from finding her.
The soldiers hesitated a moment, then filed out of the tavern, grumbling. Mark watched them go. When the last man left, Mark turned his attention to Matthew and asked quietly, “What has you in a sudden uproar?"
"Do you recall the girl the Scot spoke of? Luke laughed about it."
"The one he said he'd have by his side...” Mark refrained from finishing the statement.
"She was in that village a few days ago. She spoke for the villagers and I let her go."
"I remember. You're sure she's the one the Scot spoke of?"
Matthew glared at his second in command. He didn't appreciate having his memories questioned, not even by his best friend. “Yes, quite sure. She was too confident, by far. It must be her."
Mark finished his ale, slammed the cup on the table, and tossed down a few coins. “The horses must be ready. The sooner we find her, the sooner we can put an end to this rebellion."
Matthew led his men out of Edinburg and set a hard pace northward. They got little rest. He wanted to reach the village before the girl got it into her head to disappear, if she hadn't already. If he found Graeme, he'd arrest the Scot and charge him with treason. The traitor deserved the worst sort of punishment English justice had to offer.
On the third day, the odor of burned wood hung thick in the morning air. Matthew cursed himself for a fool as they approached the burned out village. Thatched roofs were gone and the walls of several huts had collapsed. Other huts were burned out shells. Nothing stirred.
"Looks like a clan raid,” Mark commented while he surveyed the destruction.
"Clan raid? Or carefully laid plans to have us think so? They won't get far.” Matthew's anger dissipated, knowing all would turn out as he had planned. He would claim the girl and use those powers of hers to gain control of Edward and the English throne.
* * * *
Several small campfires burned brightly, protected by the glen. A few men had gone in search of game. The harvest had been a good one and would get them through the winter if they were careful now. Whatever game could be found would go a long way in stretching those stores.
A group of children sat still, enthralled with Meryl's tales of fantasy. Their eyes grew large and round with wonder at descriptions of make believe places. Meryl was oblivious of the adults who looked up from their chores to watch her. She was too involved in relating the tale of Aunt Enchantra's botched magic. Before too long, parents appeared to claim their children and see them settled for the remainder of the night. They'd be staying put until the men who had been left behind, caught up with them.
Meryl wondered if Enchantra worried about her, and winced with regret. If Tristan hadn't been so anxious to return here, she would have taken the time to leave a brief letter for her aunt. Then again, the way Tristan spoke at the time, she doubted he'd have allowed her to leave a message. Too late to worry about it now. Maybe if she concentrated hard enough, she'd be able to get a message to her aunt. She recalled some lesson about transcending time and space to communicate with others. It was all theory, but ... Meryl shrugged and stared at the night sky. There were still several hours before dawn and she was tired. A good night sleep would do wonders for her frame of mind and its clarity.
She hoped Graeme and his men would find them soon. As peaceful as this glen was, she wanted to be on the move again. Scotland wasn't known for its fine days, and who could tell how long this dry weather would last? The sooner they reached their destination, the safer they would be. Meryl lay down on the length of wool and tucked her feet under her skirts for warmth, then wrapped the rest of the wool about her. Tomorrow called for a clear head to plan another day. The thought slipped from her mind and she drifted into exhausted sleep.
* * * *
The children grew restless and adults grumbled, impatient to be on their way again. Meryl's gaze turned southward; more than half the day was gone. Graeme and his men should have returned by now, unless they had been caught. She refused to consider the possibility. They had carefully laid out their plans. Whether or not they returned, the group would move on at dawn. They would take no chances with the women and children's safety.
After the evening meal, Meryl found herself surrounded by children wanting more stories. To her surprise, Dinks abandoned her, to make himself comfortable by Brenna's side, allowing the child to pet him.
Meryl's voice rose in a tune, the words no one understood. Several adults gathered closer, listening suspiciously. Tristan's relaxed pose against a tree quickly straightened. Famhair stood alert, searching for what his master sensed that he had missed. Tristan couldn't believe Meryl would use her own modern English after the warning he'd given her. Just because they were in Scotland didn't mean they were safe from spies. She should know better. Didn't she stop to consider the suspicion that could be raised? Bad enough now the others had the barest trust in her. This could be her undoing. Tristan listened carefully to the words. “I love you, you love me...” Despite his misgivings for her lack of concern, he tried to hide his amusement while he pictured the purple dinosaur he'd seen when he'd been in her time. Picking up his mug, Tristan sipped his ale and strolled closer, listening intently to the words. He studied the wary expressions of the listeners.
"What's she saying?” they asked one another, not pleased she spoke a language unknown to them.
Rose stood next to Maisri, looking smug. The villagers would certainly send Meryl away now. She caught Maisri's frown and hastily turned her attention back to the entertainment.
"What language is that?” Ian the blacksmith demanded to know. His own son sat among the children gathered around Meryl.
Meryl looked up at the blacksmith. “Gibberish,’ she replied nonchalantly, then turned back to the children, and repeated the tune.
"Gibberish,” he repeated then muttered, “Must be the Welsh.” He wandered off and scratched at his stubbled chin, leaving Meryl to continue entertaining the little ones.
Tristan bit his tongue in an effort not to laugh. Meryl's seemingly strange ways amused him. He worried those habits of hers would one day create a situation she wouldn't be able to explain.
He made himself comfortable on a fallen log and watched her interact with the children. She was good with them. No matter what she did, she held their attention. She'd make a wonderful mother one day, but right now, she had all she could handle, and more, guiding these people to their new homes. He stopped for a moment, surprised at the turn of his thoughts, wondering where they came from. It was dangerous territory his mind was wandering into. There was no room in his life for someone special, and he couldn't allow those kinds of thoughts to fill his mind. Maybe there never would be a place for a woman. Eventually he'd be moving on to fight other battles for the Scottish cause.
The sounds of several horses approaching broke into his thoughts. Famhair growled ready to go on the a
ttack with a single word from his master. Tristan started to draw his sword but shoved it back into its sheath when he caught a glimpse of Graeme. No one else would know to find them on this little traveled route north. The English couldn't get that luckly.
Graeme grinned broadly and dismounted, then handed the reins over to a younger boy who ran up to the men. Graeme ruffled his hair and sent him off. Rose and Ena quickly filled several trenchers with stew left over from the evening meal. The men with Graeme gratefully accepted the food along with cups of ale.
"You were right about the English,” he told Meryl while he dug into the stew. He was famished. It had been a long, hard ride to catch up to the travelers.
"Did everything go as planned?” Tristan asked.
"Aye.” Graeme's broad grin answered his question. He proceeded to relate his tale, while his men added their own comments to the telling. “The Englishman was cursing, the likes I've never heard. He took another spoonful of stew and chewed it thoughtfully, knowing the others were anxious to hear the rest of his tale. “There was one interestin’ thing about his tirade. His anger had nothin’ to do with losing warriors, or the fact the village was burned to the ground and smoulderin'.” Graeme paused and looked up at Tristan, then turned his gaze to Meryl. “He was angry you had slipped through his fingers."
"Me?” Meryl squeaked in shock. “Why would he be angry about me disappearing?"
Graeme shrugged. “He bellowed something about a silver eyed witch, said sooner or later he'd find you, but he prefers it be sooner.” Graeme appeared amused by the last comment. He kept his anger well concealed. He couldn't afford to let those three Englishmen find Meryl. He needed her to help him gain the Scottish throne, and he had no intention of sharing her or her power. The English would have to find some other way to influence Edward to their way of thinking.
"How far behind are they?” Tristan asked, jolting Graeme from his thoughts.
"A day's ride. They don't know the country very well and that gives us a definite advantage."
"Good ... but not good enough. Get some rest. We'll be on our way at dawn. It isn't easy moving these many people and animals and not leave some kind of trail. Meryl, is there some way you can cover our passage through here, at least give us time to gain more distance?” Tristan studied the dark haired girl's frown.
"I don't know. I don't have any magic"
"What you did in the village—” Graeme began.
"Was a fluke,” Meryl finished, then tried to find a better word. “It was totally unexpected. Well, not totally. I had no idea how I was going to make you ‘vanish', and yet, I guess I did,” she rambled.
"Then you can make another fluke,” one of the children piped up and received a light cuff on the back of his head for interrupting. He glared up at his older sister, wondering what he'd done wrong.
Meryl laughed. “Who knows, David. It could happen.” She reached up and touched the pendant. “Let's hope I can come up with something real quick."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A hint of light shown on the horizon when the children were tucked into their cart. Rose climbed in after them and made certain they were comfortable. They munched on the last of the bannocks and sipped water to wash them down, then snuggled into the straw for warmth. A cold wind stirred through the glen.
When the young ones were settled, Rose climbed out of the cart and pulled the edges of her woolen cloak together. The dawn cast shadows across the campsite but she kept her eyes on Tristan. No other man in the village could compare to the handsome warrior. He wasted no motion or energy dismantling the campfires. Stones were scattered and ashes mixed into the dirt.
Rose frowned when she caught Meryl staring at Tristan. The outsider carefully controlled the expression on her face, giving nothing away of her thoughts. What was she thinking, Rose wondered. She couldn't have Tristan. Rose believed Meryl would never be good enough for the warrior. Ena said Rose could have the warrior, if she remained patient. Rose wanted to believe the fiery redhead.
The cart lurched forward as the mule strained at the weight. Another cart followed. Rose glanced at Meryl once more, then looked straight ahead and walked beside the cart. It would be another long day of cramped traveling.
* * * *
Meryl sat astride the highland pony and tugged at the bottom of her skirt. What she wouldn't give right now to have her jeans. The denim pants would have made it so much easier, but Tristan had been right; too many questions would be asked if she'd shown up wearing them.
She watched the carts rolling past her. Wheels creaked on the uneven ground, and men and boys moved slowly along, pulling the loads, trying to establish a steady pace for their journey. Their small flock of sheep were hurried out of the way and the two dogs worked together to keep the wooly animals from straying. In a few days, the travelers should be close to their destination. They had enough supplies to last through the winter, as long as the hunting was good. No one had to remind her it would be rough until they brought in their first harvest.
Meryl turned her mount to follow the last of the carts and signaled the animal with a light kick. The next few moments happened so quickly, she had no idea what was going on. When she turned in the saddle, she felt something release and she fell from the pony's back. Saddle and blanket fell near her legs. The startled pony stepped back, then reared, and Meryl threw up her arms to protect her head from the flailing front hoofs. Someone grabbed her under her arms and yanked her out of the reach of the deadly iron shoes. Heart pounding wildly, Meryl managed to get to her feet with the help of the blacksmith.
"Thank you, Ian. That was close."
"Aye. Too close,” he added and moved to retrieve the saddle and blanket. He checked each strap and buckle carefully, until he found what he was looking for.
Tristan grabbed the pony's reins and kept the animal from rearing again. He glanced at Meryl, approaching with caution, visibly shaken by the incident. “Are you hurt?"
Meryl noted the concern in his green eyes and consigned it to his determination to complete his duty to the villagers and nothing more. The realization hurt almost as much as the fall from the pony.
"I'm fine. What about him?” She tentatively stroked the animal's muzzle and spoke to it softly. The pony's eyes, large and wild, rolled with fright. Meryl's words gradually calmed her mount.
"Tristan, look at this.” The blacksmith approached, carrying the small saddle, one of the straps in his large hand. “Girth was cut almost all the way through. This was no accident."
Tristan examined the strap more closely. It had definitely been cut. Anger flitted across his dark features. “Do you believe me yet, my lady?"
Meryl looked at the cut girth, then at the people surrounding her. The villagers only trusted her because Tristan did. She couldn't believe someone would want to deliberately hurt her. “We have a long way to go today, we'd better get moving.” She turned her back to Tristan and addressed the group. “The danger is over. Let's move out."
The blacksmith glanced at Tristan and a nod from the warrior sent people back to their places. The pony's reins were tied to the back of a cart, leaving Meryl to walk beside the villagers. Tristan was torn between staying close by her side or moving off to let his anger cool.
Why didn't she see the danger to herself, or maybe there was a reason she prefered to ignore it? Tristan was sure he couldn't keep going through these close calls until she reached her twenty-first year. Somehow, he had to make her accept what wais happening and convince her to take precautions. He laughed derisively. She was going to be the death of him yet.
* * * *
The highland pony's reins hung limp in Meryl's hand as she walked beside it. Two children sat on the pony's bare back, no longer thrilled with the ride. They had lost count of the days they'd traveled and no longer enjoyed the adventure.
"Lady Meryl,” Brenna called again, frustrated to think she was being ignored.
"Hmm? I'm sorry, Brenna, I was thinking. I didn't hear you.�
� Meryl glanced up at the girl.
"When are we going home?” Brenna's chestnut curls framed her small face.
"We'll be there soon, sweet. Two, maybe three more days, we'll be in our new home."
"I don't want a new home! I want to go back to my home!” the child whined.
Meryl stopped the pony and stared at her, surprised. The small boy sitting in front of Brenna stared back at Meryl, wide eyed, as if expecting her to strike his companion. Her calm, quiet voice relaxed him. “Brenna, we can't go back. There's nothing left there but English soldiers."
"Are there soldiers where we're going?” the boy piped up.
"No.” Meryl smiled; she was just as tired of the journey as the children were, but this had been the only way she knew to protect the villagers. She had the strangest feeling she was going home. To a place she'd never been before? How odd—but nothing about this adventure seemed normal to her. Instinct was guiding her and so far, it had run true. She still hoped she'd done the right thing by them. “No, where we're going, there are no soldiers. They won't be able to find us."
"That's good then.” He smiled brightly.
"That's very good,” Meryl agreed. Her pace quickened with renewed confidence in herself and their future.
By mid afternoon, the sun had traveled more than half way to the western horizon. They'd been fortunate so far, with only light changes in the weather. Meryl thanked whatever powers guided her, when impending storms held off and disappeared. No more than three days she hoped; any longer and she'd probably have to deal with a mutiny.
* * * *
Tristan and Graeme, followed by the other warriors, galloped ahead of the travelers. Meryl caught the distant yells of fighting men. The group was far enough away and near the woods, not to be seen outright. She halted and waited for someone to return with news of the commotion. Despite what sounded like a battle, she felt no threat of danger to the villagers.
The Spellbinder: Highland Eyes Page 11