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

by K. E. Saxon

  She lifted a lid and one amber eye peeked out at him. “Nay, not a whit.”

  “ ‘Tis not good for the babe.”

  Vika rolled her head away from him and focused on some distant object, he knew not what. “Aye, and we mustn’t have that,” she said with the familiar sarcasm he was used to hearing from her, “but if ‘twere only me, then you’d not care a tittle.” It made him hopeful that she was not as ill as he’d feared.

  “I’d care.”

  She shifted her gaze to his and lifted an eyebrow, along with one side of her mouth. “Truly?” she said in a low, disbelieving tone, and again the sarcasm dripped in it as well.

  He sat back on the stool and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’d care because Morgana cares.” He sat forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Now, since you are clearly well enough to jab and poke at me this morn, I’ve a few questions for you. The first of which is this: What exactly was your plan regarding this babe you carry before Wife Deirdre discovered your secret?”

  * * *

  Vika’s heart leapt in her chest. Oh, Lord. What to say? What to say? She cleared her throat. Then she made a long production of sitting up and fluffing the pillow behind her just right. After that, she straightened and untwisted her gown before tugging the sleeves down further o’er her arms until they covered the upper portion of her hands.

  “Viii-Kaa...” Robert growled at her.

  She refused to be intimidated (even tho’ she was, just a little). She fluttered her lashes at him. “Aye?”

  His eyes narrowed and once again he sat back with his arms crossed over his chest in that imposing posture he had an affinity for taking much too often in her presence.

  It didn’t take as long as Vika had striven for under his silent, hard glare, for her will to crumble, and her tongue to begin forming words. “All right. I’ll tell you.” When I figure out what to say.

  She dropped her gaze and fingered the hem on her sleeve, the cogs in her battered, aching brain turning, as first one idea then another struck then was swiftly discarded. And her tormentor, bless his domineering soul, just sat there, like a king on his throne waiting for the trumps to finish sounding, in order to give some final decree. Mayhap a bit of the truth would not hurt?

  “I had planned to tell you of the babe when I first arrived.”

  He dipped his head in an imperious nod, as if to say, ‘As is right,’ then said, “But you did not.”

  Vexing, vexing man! She lifted her gaze to his. “Nay, I did not.” See? She could give short responses, too!

  Except, that glare bore holes in her will again.

  “ ‘Twas only after learning that Morgana carried your bairn, and seeing how joyous the two of you were, that I decided against telling you of my own childing state.” There! She’d managed to give him the truth, yet not lie again about his fathering the babe.

  Yet again, she was met with only silence, and the crushing pressure of those unrelenting steel-grey eyes upon her.

  Then, her long lost friend, inspiration, struck. “ ‘Tis truth, I had not had time before the fall I took to conceive a new plan, once my original had been discarded.”

  She knew by the way her interrogator’s shoulders relaxed and he dropped his hands to his knees, that he believed her. Thanks be to heaven.

  “Well, ‘tis all settled now. Tell me how you managed to take that tumble down the stairs.”

  At the word tumble, a brief, and confusing, spike of terror arced through her, but was swiftly followed by a renewed wash of relief when she realized Robert would not be forcing her to speak of his and Morgana’s plan for her and her babe, and she answered gladly, “I remember not. I—” A vague, uneasy feeling settled in her stomach, as if there were something quite important, something bad, that happened just before her fall, but try as she might, she could not recall it.

  “Aye?” Robert sat forward and placed his hand on hers. “You’ve grown pale. Do you need a tisane for your head?”

  The throbbing had grown more acute in these past minutes, and she closed her eyes, saying weakly, “Aye, my thanks.”

  * * *

  Robert silently shut the door to Vika’s chamber not long later and made his way down to the great hall. He’d sworn to her that they would keep the fact of her childing hidden until ‘twas necessary to reveal it, as only they, the healer, and Modrun knew of it, and he’d already gained the oath of the last two that they would keep their silence, and curb any chatter that might arise, by giving forth a different tale of events. That would afford Vika a bit more time to heal without worry of the tidings reaching her father. His brows drew together. As to the other, tho’ he was much relieved at learning that Vika had not always intended to keep his babe with her a secret, her strange reaction to what e’er recollection she’d had regarding her fall now made him question further and, aye, worry as well. Had it been an accident she’d suffered? Or, as he was beginning to suspect, had there been a fouler reason for her fall? He’d ne’er completely put aside the notion that the dark figure his wife had seen upon the Bealltainn mound was not phantasm but, in fact, corporeal.

  But who? Who among them would commit such an act? And for what purpose?

  It bore investigating. And if he wanted to find the culprit, ‘twas plain that the suspicion should be kept to himself, so that the ferreting out of the coward would be much easier. And, in the meantime, he’d keep a closer watch on both Vika, and his wife.

  * * *

  Over the next three days, Robert surreptitiously looked for clues, made casual inquiries, and questioned Vika further about all that she recalled of her fall, and the events that led up to it. Thus far, he had found little proof of evil-doing or foul intent. The only piece of information he’d managed to glean that struck him as odd, and therefore, put his suspicions on alert, was the tale he’d got from his master mason only moments past that one of the man’s apprentices had slacked in his duty, had wandered away for a time on the same day as Vika’s fall. Of course, the mason only told him of this as part of his report on the work they were now doing, and as an assurance that he’d taken the man in hand and dealt with his behavior, so that Robert should feel confident that the mason had things well under control.

  But, the question remained, if this man did push Vika down those stairs and leave her for dead, why? There seemed no credible reason, other than pure madness, for a man of such low means, and whose livelihood depended so much on Robert’s good will, to attack a guest at this holding.

  Unless.

  Unless he was not what he seemed?

  But why Vika?

  * * *

  The apprentice narrowed his eyes as he watched the husband walk through the entry to the bailey where they were nearing completion of the furbishing there. He’d seen the master mason deep in conversation with the man only moments prior, and knew he’d relayed to him the fact that one of his men had been reproved due to slacking in his work.

  He’d truly thought he’d not been missed. What faulty fortune! ‘Twas not clear as yet whether the husband suspected any crooked deed behind the lady’s fall, but he knew now he must confess his radical and unsanctioned actions to his partner in their scheme, for he had from him, at least, some chance of aid, whereas, if he scurried off now, there was every reason to believe he’d hurry his own end even further.

  One of the other apprentices called him, jerking him from his dark thoughts, and beckoned him over to help him move some debris. With a mental sigh, and a last calculation of how many hours more ‘twould be until he could meet his partner on the heath, he tugged on his glove and strode over to the man.

  * * *

  Robert was still pondering the puzzle of Vika’s fall as he walked across the courtyard when he heard his gatekeeper call to him, “Laird, there’s a knight by the name of Grímr Thorfinnsson begging entrance.”

  Robert grinned. “Let him in.”

  * * *

  Grímr spurred his stallion into a walk. When he was through the
gate, his host called out, “Welcome!” and strode toward him as he dismounted and handed the reins to the stableman who’d jogged over to him.

  “I hope you do not mind a guest for some bit of time, as I’ve dealings in the next shire, and thought of your generous offer as we shared a bowl of björr together on the road last winter.”

  “Aye, aye, as before: Welcome!” On a turn, his host continued, “Come. We shall share a tankard of ale together while I have a chamber prepared for you.”

  Grímr glanced around as he walked. “I see you are expanding the fortress. The work looks to be going well.”

  “Aye. I shall show it to you in a while, if you wish.”

  “I do. My thanks.” He’d taken it as a benevolent sign when he’d discovered, after first traveling back to court, then on to her manor, that Vika had journeyed to the selfsame holding that he, himself, had been invited to as guest.

  With a quick glance up, Grímr scanned the windows on the upper levels of the keep, wondering which one opened into her chamber. Tho’ he’d left court last winter after his ill-begotten attempt to seduce her into returning to Leòdhas, and traveled back home to his daughter and his responsibilities, ‘twas not long again before his daughter’s pain, her discontent and inability to be comforted by any other but himself, made him once again vow that he’d not rest until he’d given her the thing she craved the most. For, she would not listen, would not believe, that ‘twas her mother who refused to come home, but he who was somehow keeping her from it.

  But, this time, he’d hardened his heart against Vika’s wiles. Last time, when he’d seen her walking in the moonlight, all the tenderness, the desire, the gut-wrenching need for her had near to poleaxed him, had o’ercome all reason, and he’d acted on those emotions. He’d taken her, claimed her as his once more—or attempted to, at least. And, good God in heaven, how sublime it had been! Just as before, mayhap, better. And, once again, he’d let her see his weakness where she was concerned. And, once again, she’d taken his love for her and thrown it back, as if ‘twere the vilest, the most putrid, of gifts. Because, as was nearly always true with Vika, the more a man pushed to bind her to him, the quicker she panicked and scurried away.

  So, he’d show no mercy, he’d give no quarter, he’d offer no soft words, and he’d bring her back to their daughter, force her to take up her duty, even if he had to toss her in a chest and take her there by force.

  * * *

  Morgana peeked around the corner of the keep and saw Robert and his guest walk through its portal. Praise be! Her husband hadn’t seen her, and tho’ she was eager to learn who the blond warrior knight was, she’d not forfeit this chance at freedom. Her husband had been acting so strangely these past days since Vika’s accident, always no more than a step or two away, where e’er she turned. And tho’ his concern warmed her, it also thwarted her from being able to make a short survey of the place where Vika had taken her fall. She, herself, had ne’er entered there, believing it so tumbledown that it surely would be destroyed and rebuilt as a more permanent extension of their living quarters. And now, Robert didn’t want her going there. He’d told her so. When he’d startled her out of her skin not three days past just as she was nearing its entrance. But, in this, she would not obey him.

  For now, she simply could not keep her curiosity at bay another moment. Vika had told her that there was a rather lovely view from the windows on the second floor, and since Robert would be using the funds to extend the wall of the bailey instead of for the keep itself, she thought, mayhap, the old keep might still be used as a second area for the making of cloth, from raw wool to final fabric, with a bit of restoration, which she thought, surely, would not be too costly.

  She’d already found several broken looms in a storage chamber, which she’d tasked one of the carpenters to fix, but she’d worried how she’d fit them into the already crowded space of the existing weavers’ chamber. Then, upon hearing Vika’s words, it seemed a boon sent straight from heaven. Mayhap, if she were frugal with coin, but lavish with ingenuity, she might even be able to use some of the discarded materials from the fortress furbishing.

  With a skip in her step; a smile on her face; bright images of the coming fair, with bags of coin and bolts of cloth changing hands; and a jaunty tune trilling in her throat (that she was thoroughly unaware of), she hurried toward her destination.

  * * *

  “Donnach will not be pleased by this,” Alaric told the apprentice late that eve.

  “Aye. This I do know,” he answered. “But will you help me?”

  His partner gave a loud sigh and said, “I will, but ‘twill not be easy.” Clearly agitated, he began to pace. Alaric’s stallion snorted and stomped in reaction, and Alaric went to it and soothed it with a stroke of his hand on its corded neck.

  “I’ve heard whispers that the mute one’s voice is returning, that she sings, that she has visions. ‘Tis time to act, and ‘tis what I did—though, I admit, I should not have acted in such haste, nor should I have acted without speaking to you first. But, I believed the opportunity presented itself, and I could not let it pass….”

  Alaric’s brow furrowed. As he pondered what had been revealed, he tapped the pads of his fingers on his lips. After a moment, he said, “Aye, that does bring some urgency to this.”

  Hopeful now, the apprentice said, “I have another who has agreed to aid us—the same lass, in fact, who gave me those tidings regarding our quarry. She is a servant inside the keep. I’ve given her a tincture to mix in the mute one’s wine. Soon, all of this will be done and we can return to our own holdings.”

  A growl burst from Alaric’s throat, taking the apprentice by surprise, just as his partner’s beefy fist connected with the apprentice’s face. He stumbled and was on his arse before the sharp pain knifed into his skull and the blood from his lacerated lip drained onto his tunic. He ignored all and flung himself to his feet again rushing Alaric in the same motion. Now they twisted on the ground, pounding their fists where e’er they could find purchase.

  After a moment, his partner called out, “Enough, Symon!” and the apprentice rolled away. The harsh sound of their ragged breaths filled the silence for a long moment until, finally, Alaric spoke again, saying, “This solved naught.” Tipping his head back and pressing his palm to his nose in an attempt to check its bleeding, he continued, “And I fear you have taken a gravely rash step in using the servant to gain any end.”

  Symon sat up and tried to stanch the flow of blood from his lip using a portion of his torn sleeve. “Nay, there is no danger in that, at least. The lass will do aught I ask of her. She believes herself enamoured of me, and I’ve promised a wedding, in the bargain.”

  Alaric sat up as well and draped his arms on top of his knees. “ ‘Tis a folly I am angered by, but I see no way out of it now that you’ve revealed your intent to someone outside our circle.”

  “This will work, and then we can hie ourselves away before the husband has had time to learn any of our plan.”

  His partner did not answer; in fact, he remained deathly silent for quite a time. Finally, he said, “There is still Gwynlyan with which to deal.”

  “Nay, I do not believe so. I am beginning to wonder if she even survived the escape, for if she had—where is she then? Why would she have not shown herself at court, given the King her tale? ‘Tis been too many moons since her flight. Nay, she does not live. She no doubt drowned in the sea, or was murdered by freebooters before she e’er made it to King William’s court.”

  * * *

  Grímr trod, with some stealth, down the stairs to the level below his own tower chamber, to the one where Vika had been housed. It had been a horrible shock to learn of the tumble she’d taken. Robert had told him, after some talk of his plans for his keep, and Grímr’s false reason for being in the area, and after several tankards of ale, that his wife’s cousin was on a visit here as well, and was recovering from injuries caused by a fall a few days past.

  His innar
ds had not stopped roiling since. And it had taken all his will not to blurt out his true purpose and storm the inside of the tower keep looking for her. But, if he was to be successful in his plan, he could not reveal it too soon. For now, however, he must find his daughter’s mother and see how she fared.

  He knew which door was hers, for he’d asked the young servant who’d brought him up to his own chamber earlier, and the lad had been more than willing to inform him of all he knew of the lady, the mishap, and the injuries she’d suffered. Grímr gave no indication of his presence beforehand, instead, simply opening the door and entering. ‘Twas best, he’d learned long ago, when dealing with Vika, to give no warning of one’s intent with regard to her, else she’d find a way to thwart it.

  An old woman, no doubt the healer, was curled up on a pallet by the fire, and seemed to be full asleep, so he went to the bed on silent feet to pull back the drapes that covered the canopy, then settled next to her, pulling the drapes closed again, enveloping them in near complete darkness. She’d not awakened, which told him she’d no doubt been given a draught to aid in her sleep, and now he listened a moment to her soft breaths as she slumbered. It caused such a pang of longing, such a strong wish for what they’d had, that his breath caught in his chest. Why could you not have been the woman I believed you to be? On the cusp of the thought came renewed anger at himself, renewed resolve that she would not now, not ever, work her wiles upon him again, get beneath, over, or around the fortress he’d built to protect his heart from her. He was here for his daughter’s sake, he reminded himself. Naught more. After a time, his eyes adjusted to the low light, and he could see the outline of her visage, the curve of her shoulders and hip as she lay on her side facing him. As he gazed down at the woman who’d sworn so long ago now to be his wife, he studied the wrist that was still bound in linen, the bruise that still marred her cheek and forehead, and clenched his fist, gritted his teeth against the impulse to feel them with the pads of his fingers, soothe them with the touch of his lips.