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

by K. E. Saxon

  * * *

  With yet another swing of the heavy, long-handled axe, blade met surface, along with the gratifying sound of splintering wood, followed closely by the creaking and quivering of the old structure. Robert jogged back a few paces and watched as the entire left side of the old fortress finally came tumbling to the ground with an even more satisfying crash.

  I should have called for Wife Deirdre sooner. Morgana had said she wasn’t feeling quite right after their evening meal, but she had insisted there was naught amiss, and that she would feel better after a night’s rest.

  And he’d believed her.

  He shouldn’t have.

  Striding over to the now half-torn-down keep, he lifted the axe again and slammed it down on the portion that still stood. Several times more, he repeated the action, and with each new cleave, another section fell.

  With effort, he forced his mind on thoughts less heartrending.

  He’d questioned the apprentice who’d slipped away from his duties the same day as Vika’s fall, but the man admitted he’d been with his lover—a lass who served inside the kitchen—and she’d affirmed his tale as truth. As the lass was admitting to being lax in her own duties, which the cook, who was working at the table while they spoke, quickly punished her for, he felt sure she told the truth, and that the apprentice was not the culprit.

  Robert was beginning to wonder if there had been someone on the stair with Vika. Mayhap, he’d been wrong. Mayhap, she had had an unusual moment of awkwardness, and simply tripped and fallen. Mayhap, Vika’s pallid countenance, the strange look that had flashed in her eyes, had only been a reaction to the pain, or to the memory of the fall. He’d tried to question her again about the incident, more than once now, and each time, she’d been calm, had simply shrugged with indifference, and told him she remembered not. And Grímr had found naught thus far in his search either, so he’d told Robert last eve while they shared a tankard of ale before supper and awaited Morgana’s arrival.

  Well, no matter. He’d not have anything inside this fortress that was a danger to the women under his protection. And even tho’ Morgana had thought it well enough to furbish and use, his master mason said not. So, ‘twas past time to destroy it. And ‘twas an added boon that with each swing of the axe, with each crack of the wood, with each boom and crash that followed, the ache of grief in his chest, the twisting, acrid guilt in his stomach, lessened.

  Do I still name myself a father, if my babe no longer lives?

  Robert’s roar rent the air, the axe came down, the wood splintered.

  * * *

  Morgana scrubbed at her puffy, tear-streaked eyes and cheeks, and slid her feet o’er the edge of the bed until they were flat on the floor. From the vociferous snore that met her ear again, she knew Wife Deirdre’s daughter dozed by the hearth, even tho’ she sat upright in the chair, and still held the needle in one hand and her sampler in the other.

  She would not lie abed another moment longer, wallowing in her grief, and being reminded with every turn of her head, with every slide of the blanket o’er thigh or breast, that ‘twas on this very mattress, her son’s life had begun...and ended.

  She needed to move, to leave this chamber of death, and to set her mind, at least for a small while, on something other than her heartache and her chiding conscience that, with every new breath, wondered again what she’d done that had caused her to lose her babe. Or, if she’d done naught wrong, was she flawed as a woman in some way? Or, mayhap, even cursed by the devil, as the devout priest who’d flogged her when she’d refused to wed Robert all those moons ago now, had oft repeated to her with such surety.

  Tho’ she doubted the woman would waken, even were a band of ravening warriors to burst through the door, Morgana still slipped out of the chamber with barely a sound made. She’d thought she might visit the weavers’ chamber, to check on the progress there, and to give her thanks to Modron once again for all the kindness and support she’d provided these past moons, and especially during the sennights she’d carried her son ‘neath her heart, but now the thought of seeing all those women—all those mothers—sent a sharp spear of anger and, aye, jealousy straight through her center. Why Lord? Why? She felt a new wave of anguish, a new flood of tears gush forth, and she pressed her palms to her face, crumpled against the cold, stone wall of the stairwell. What did I do? What did I do? What more should I have done? Oh, God, oh, God...NO! Cease this now. Morgana slid her hands from her damp cheeks, gulped in several deep, calming breaths, straightened her spine, and stood tall on wobbly knees a moment before, with renewed purpose, she made her way back up the stairs, and higher still, to the small solar tucked away in the westside tower. There, she would sit and sew on the large tapestry meant to be hung on the wall behind their long table in the great hall. The smaller one, the one meant for her son’s chamber, she would not think or look upon for many moons to come...if ever.

  * * *

  As the gates shut behind Grímr, he heard yet another crash of timber, and knew Robert was not yet done purging his anger, his sorrow, and no doubt his unease of mind o’er the blow of defeat he’d taken at the loss of his and Morgana’s babe.

  And now, Grímr could not give him another by revealing that the babe Vika carried was not his own, but Grímr’s. At least, not yet.

  Vika! Damn her! If she’d only honored their bargain three years past, they’d not be here now, she’d not be in some still unknown danger, their daughter would not cry herself to sleep so oft asking for her mother, and he’d not have to deliver a second blow to a man that he’d developed a bond of friendship with from near to the moment of first meeting him. Damn! He kicked his steed into a faster pace, ran him o’er the heath for long minutes until Grímr’s ire was spent, and his horse was lathered.

  Turning in the direction of a shaded copse of trees where, he could see, the burn wandered through, he moved toward it. After dismounting and stripping his steed’s back of its burdens, he led it to the burn so that it might drink. As he did so, he turned his mind again to Vika, and her fondness for taking what e’er course was easiest at the moment, with little regard for the lasting effect such action might have on her. Grímr grumbled. Aye, on her. But, and more importantly, the effect it might, and too often did, have on those around her.

  Once she’d agreed to return with him to Leòdhas, she’d revealed to Grímr the depth of her deceit. Not only had she allowed both Robert and her mildr, dœll cousin, Morgana, to believe Robert had sired a babe with her, she’d also allowed them to believe she’d leave the babe to be raised by them. Upon learning the last, he’d insisted they not wait a moment longer, insisted they must go to Robert and Morgana immediately and tell them the truth. But, she’d worked her wiles on him, with her tears and pretense of a need to rest, for the babe’s sake, so he’d agreed to let the revelation wait until that eve, after supper. What a fool he’d been! Again!

  For, nay. She’d not come down, she’d not honored even that bargain. Grinding his teeth, he yanked on a cluster of bracken, slicing it through at its base, then using it to groom the lather from his horse. For at least the hundredth time since she’d insisted on abandoning them, he asked himself: Why? Why do I burn for her? What is it in me that craves such a selfish, deceitful, faithless lady?

  “Just as my heart no longer is yours, neither, now, logi af mitt fýst, is the little trust I offered up this day past,” he vowed.

  He positioned the saddle on the back of the horse with a growl. ‘Twas near more than he could stomach to know that this conniver was the mother of his bairns.

  Finally, he mounted his steed once more and continued on his journey. Knowing Vika would be safe, hiding away in her chamber while he was gone, as she’d no doubt dread facing Robert and Morgana with her lie to them even more, now that she would be met with their grief o’er the loss of their babe as well, he forced the worry from his mind.

  The trip to and from the west coast to meet with his men, to find out the progress of the repairs to hi
s ship from the damage done it by the sea storm they encountered on their way here, and to give them notice that they should be prepared to leave within not more than a moon’s time, should take him no more than five days, and he should be back six days hence. Hopefully, that would give his hosts time to o’ercome the shock. The last thing they needed at this time was to deal with guests, and he’d have taken Vika with him now, if he’d not feared that ‘twas too soon for her to make such a journey. For, aye, tho’ he knew she’d lied the night before about her aching head in order to keep from confessing her deceit, he also knew, from speaking at length to Wife Deirdre, that Vika was still suffering from her injuries.

  He’d send a missive to his mother, with a passage in it to his daughter, telling them that he and Vika would be home by the end of haust, if the winds of fortune blew no ill. Otherwise, ‘twould be closer to í móti vetri.

  With a sigh of resignation at the battle he’d have ahead of him, he kicked his steed into a canter and rode west, the morn still young, and the sun at his back.

  * * *

  Not long later, nearing the bells of terce, Robert was just taking the steps up to the door of the keep when Wife Deirdre called to him from behind.

  “Laird!” she wheezed out.

  His brows slammed together as he made a half-turn on the step to look back at her. “Why are you not attending my wife?”

  Still moving toward him, she held her hand to the center of her chest, heaving in loud breaths as she said, “Yer wife is sleepin’ soundly, and wi’ one o’ me daughters there ta tend ‘er should she ‘waken. I’ve been lookin’ fer ya, Laird, as I’ve a need ta speak wi’ ya.”

  Tho’ his stomach twisted with worry, he managed to keep an outer calm. Lifting a brow, he said, “Aye? Is my wife ill?”

  She shook her head and the tight knot in Robert’s neck relaxed. He watched as she trudged the last several feet to stand at the bottom of the steps. After taking another moment to inhale a deep breath and, with the back of her gnarled hand, move the stray lock of gray hair that had come loose of her wimple and fallen o’er her forehead, she said at last, “I’ve discover’d somethin’ dreadful, Laird. Aboot why our Lady lost ‘er babe th’s night past.”

  His heart thumped wildly in his chest and it was all Robert could do to keep his knees from bending. “Because”—he cleared his throat—“Because I did not call for you earlier?”

  “Nay, ‘twas naugh’ ta do wi’ tha’ ” She looked around, clearly worried that others might hear her. Even tho’ she found the bailey all but empty, she still leaned toward him and said in a near whisper, “ ‘Tis somethin’—someone—else, an’ no’ fer others’ ears, Laird.”

  In a flash he recalled his suspicions regarding Vika’s fall, and rage replaced fear. The muscles in Robert’s cheek vibrated. His hands formed fists at his side. With a growl and a palm out to assist her, he bade the healer come inside the great hall to give him the full of the tale.

  Once he had the aged woman settled on a bench, with a cup of water to soothe her parched throat, he said, “What have you learned, Wife Deirdre?”

  She pressed the back of her hand to her lips as she swallowed the cool liquid, then said at last, “Praise be tha’ our lady refused th’ sleepin’ draught ‘er maid tried ta ferce upon ‘er after...after losin’ yer babe this nigh’ past, fer I fear I wud no’ ‘ave noticed th’ diff’rence in smell standin’ ‘way from it as I was then. But, this morn, efter I made sure our lady ate at least ‘alf th’ bread an’ cheese I give ‘er ta break ‘er fast, I pressed ‘er to take th’ draught, told ‘er she needed ta rest ta heal an’ regain ‘er strength.”

  When the healer took another long swallow of water and didn’t take up the tale again immediately upon setting the cup down on the table, Robert growled, “Aye? Speak!” His heart nearly beat through his ribcage. When her mouth dropped open, but no words came forth, he slammed his fist down onto the table and yelled, “By God’s bones, woman, tell me what you found!”

  “ ‘Tw-‘twas fer a mech long’r sleep, wha’ I foond. A death draught, i’ was, tha’ I smelt in tha’ vial, Laird.”

  Robert stormed toward the armory. “I will kill who e’er dared do this.”

  “Then ye’ll be killin’ yer wife’s maid!” the old woman cried out.

  He skidded to a halt and whipped around to find her not more than a pace or two behind him. Narrowing his eyes at her he said, “Speak.”

  Clearly winded again by her exertion, she sucked in several breaths before answering. “I come ta yer chamber this day past ta check on our lady an’ learn’f she required any more sleepin’ draught, or any other herbs I migh’ offer. ‘Twas then tha’ I saw th’ maid tyin’ th’ string back ‘round th’ coverin’ o’er th’ top o’ th’ vial.”

  Robert’s brows slammed together even further as he gave a short shake of his head. “And, because you saw her maid with this vial, you would accuse her of attempting to murder my wife?”

  The healer straightened her shoulders and thrust her ample chest forward, lifting her nose in the air. Her chin quivered, but held belligerence as well, as she said, “Aye, tha’, an’ she knew weel the scent o’ th’ true tincture, fer she smelt it ‘erself when first I offer’d i’ ta yer lady, askin’ me wha’ herbs I put in it, sayin’ she ‘erself knew th’ ‘ealing arts.” She paused, and Robert gave her a short nod, prompting her to continue. “As weel, she waited ‘til I’d left th’ chamber ta fetch me sewin’ las’ eve, ta try ta ferce th’ tincture dow’ yer wife’s throat, an’ all th’ time, our lady pushin’ her ‘way an’ refusin’ th’ use o’ it. ‘Twas only efter I opened th’ door an’ foond them thus, an’ efter I tol’ th’ woman ta leave our lady be, tha’ she heeded either o’ us an’ placed th’ vial back on th’ table. If I whiffed it, why then di’ she no’?”

  “Is it there now?” Robert asked in some alarm.

  “Nay, Laird. ‘Tis wi’ me.” She brought the draught out of the pouch at her waist and handed it to him.

  Robert wrapped his hands around it and lifted the cloth that covered the top, then took in a small whiff. Aye, it had a much stronger scent than the sleeping draught. But, clearly, Morgana had not noticed, for she’d taken the stuff sometime this day past. He must find a way to question her without upsetting her. And was it truly possible that the kind, gentle servant he’d brought with them back from court, the servant who’d only barely veiled her chastisement of his bumbling actions with regard to Morgana, was in fact trying to kill her? Had it been a well-played ruse? Was she somehow connected to the perpetrators of that long-ago deed that left his wife’s mother and father dead—left her mute? Had this woman, this maid, been the person to push Vika down the stairs as well? If the answer was aye, then he’d not make the same mistake in hesitating as he’d done this night past, nor as he’d done all those years watching his father near destroy this clan. Nay, he’d take action, as he should have done before. But, he’d have to find justice in some way other than the one planned.

  Striding back to the table, he slumped down on the bench. “Nay, I cannot battle a woman, even a murderess.” He looked up then and caught the healer’s eye. “If she be a murderess.” Turning his gaze to the hearth, he said, “This will take much more thought and planning.” He stood abruptly and settled his hand on the aged woman’s back, guiding her out. “Go back to my wife, and I will look for Modron. Until I learn whether the maid is truly the culprit, she will not be allowed near my wife.” When the woman nodded and made to turn, he drew her back around with a hand on her shoulder. “And I am placing a guard outside the chamber as well, so make sure my wife is well covered, as he’ll scout the interior prior to taking up his post.”

  “Aye, Laird.”

  “Only you and your daughters are allowed entrance there, until further notice. As for the food and drink.” He shook his head. “You watch Cook prepare Morgana’s meal, or you will prepare it yourself. As for the sleeping draught...if my wife has need of such, then only give her
what you’ve kept safe in the vial in your pouch.”

  “Aye, Laird. I’ll no’ let harm come ta our lady.”

  He gave her a solemn nod. “Tell Morgana that I will be up to see her in a while.”

  “Aye, Laird.”

  Robert watched the aged woman turn and wobble out the entrance to the hall before he took the back doorway out that led to the portion of the fortress where the weavers worked, stopping only long enough to send one of his most trusted soldiers, a cousin from his mother’s clan, up to guard his wife’s door, with strict orders that the man was only to allow Wife Deirdre, or one of her daughters, inside the chamber, and that at all costs, he was to keep Morgana well within his sights, should she depart it for any purpose. When the man questioned him about this cryptic command, Robert said only that there was a plot afoot, and that they must safeguard his wife.

  That settled, he continued his trek to the weavers’ chamber. At this time of day, he had little doubt, he’d find the woman there, o’erseeing the women as she had been doing along with his wife these past moons.

  * * *

  Gwynlyan knew instantly upon seeing Robert’s grim visage as he came through the doorway of the weavers’ chamber that something was terribly amiss. She rushed over to him, meeting him more than halfway and said low: “Is my lady ill? I must go to her,” as she scurried past him and hurried out the door and into the courtyard.

  She was no more than a pace or two from the weavers’ chamber when she heard Robert call to her to halt with the unmistakable sound of booted feet pounding up behind her. Swinging around, she said, “My lady is well then?”

  Her heartbeat accelerated and a ball of fear lodged like a river stone in her throat when his only reply was a tip of his head in the direction of the keep; the pressure of his great hand on her back between her shoulder blades, prodding her onward in a quick step ahead of him; and two harshly spoken words, “Great hall.”

  What has happened to my daughter! Gwynlyan wanted to screech the words at the man, beat her fists against his broad chest, force him to tell her what had happened, but she could not. She could not divulge her true identity. And acting in any manner other than the way she had thus far, would surely cause him to suspect she was not all she claimed. Nay, she must somehow contain her panic until she was certain that ‘twas her daughter’s demise he was set to speak with her about. She knew, she could feel the heat of his anger, and until she discovered whether ‘twas directed at God, the Fates, herself, or someone else entirely, she must continue to keep her own counsel.