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

by K. E. Saxon

  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.

  CHAPTER 4

  ROBERT 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.

  Guy started to move up beside her, but Morgana adamantly shook her head. The fear in her look and the way her eyes shifted rapidly from her uncle, back to Guy, told Guy all he needed to know. He halted and waited until the mounted party were well up ahead before continuing on his journey.

  He had not gone more than a mile forward before he reined his horse in and turned back. There was naught left for him at King William’s court. He’d done well in the jousts he’d competed in, as was his liege lord, Guillaume le Maréchal, the Earl of Pembroke’s desire, but his own endeavor, his search for a wife, had not been so successful. Mayhap he’d have more luck in Cambria this next time.

  With that thought in mind, he kneed his mount into a full gallop. If the weather held, he’d be at Cilgerran Castle by the time of Pasche.

  * * *

  Morgana was dragged from her mount by her uncle and shoved ahead of him. “Get you back to the dungeon. ‘Tis clear the flogging you received this morn past did little to cleanse your soul.”

  Morgana stumbled and nearly fell forward when he shoved her again, this time with even greater strength behind it. Her back was on fire from his rough handling and tears of fear and shame formed in her eyes. Her limbs, her frame, were quaking so badly, she could barely keep herself upright.

  ‘Twas in this manner that they continued on until they were inside the dank, odorous cell once more. Her uncle had said naught else during the forced march to her prison, but once the door was slammed shut behind him, he settled the torch in its hoop on the wall, picked up the crop, and said, “Bend over and grasp your ankles.”

  Morgana shook her head, pleading with him the best she could, with her expression, with her hands, not to beat her again.

  “Do as I say, or ‘twill be twice the punishment for you. I’ll not have a willful whore for family.”

  Tears of utter dread streaked down her face but she turned and did as he’d bade.

  In the next second, her skirts were flung o’er her head and the crop came down on the tender flesh of her buttocks and thighs in swift, repetitive, searing, strokes.

  * * *

  Robert had just come out of the stables when he’d seen Morgana’s uncle pushing his niece through the doorway of the dungeon tower.

  He’d raced to catch up to them, but by the time he’d made it into the tower, they were already nearing their destination. He could hear the sound of their footsteps coming from somewhere below him in the stairwell. While he was still descending the stairs, he heard the echo of a door slamming. He continued on, listening at first one door and then another, until he came to one in which he heard the distinct thwacking sound of something—a crop, mayhap?—meeting flesh. He pushed on the door and it opened.

  “Leave her be!” he roared. In the next instant he was between the earl and Morgana. He took two of the strokes to his shins before he was able to wrest the crop from the earl’s hand.

  The earl, sweating and red-faced, his shoulders heaving with each new breath, looked up at him. There was a gleam in his eyes that caused the hairs on the back of Robert’s neck to rise. ‘Twas clear, the man did not even see who was standing before him, so thralled was he by his means of punishment.

  Robert heard shuff
ling behind him but dared not turn his back on the man. “Morgana, go back to your chamber.”

  “You have no right to give her a decree such as that! I am her guardian and she must do as I dictate!”

  “She is my betrothed. From this day forward, you have no right to her.” Robert’s heart pounded in his chest. What am I saying? He wasn’t going to wed the lass—he had to find an heiress for his clan! On the cusp of that thought, he saw a blur of white hair pass next to him. When he looked, he saw the daubs of blood that stained the back of Morgana’s pale gray gown, and was livid. After that, no matter how he tried, the words would not rise up in him to negate his previous statement. He was in deep, deep, deep, trouble.

  * * *

  Guy shoved the velvet purse filled with most of the coin he’d gained from the tournaments these past sennights, along with a rolled scroll, into the young novice’s hand. “Take these directly to the King. He’ll have audience with you immediately if you say you’ve a missive from me.”

  The youth nodded and tucked both in the billowing sleeves of his habit before turning and making his way on foot down the path leading to the abbey at Scone, where the King held court.

  ‘Twould be well past nones by the time the novice arrived at his destination, but Guy’s conscience and pride were soothed by the knowledge that by nightfall, not only would Morgana be well out from under her uncle’s iron-fisted sway and under the protection of both her betrothed and the King, but that Guy would have at last paid the debt he owed to the MacVie clan for his part in their financial ruin due to his youthful dalliance with the lovely Isobail.

  * * *

  “So, you wish to wed the lady Morgana Cambel?” King William asked Robert late that evening. Robert was on one knee at the base of the King’s throne in the royal court chamber. His liege had sent forth a decree to Robert that he wished to meet with him after dinner.

  Robert had a yawning dread that the King may have reconsidered even the three moons he’d given him to repay his debt and would now tell him that he wanted the payment in full forthwith.