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

by K. E. Saxon

  Several long, silent moments later, she was settled on a stool by the hearth in the great hall, craning her neck to keep her eyes solidly fixed on Robert’s thunderous face as he stood, not more than a pace away from her, with his arms crossed over his chest, his feet spread, his nostrils flared, and his silver-gray eyes piercing through her skull.

  All at once he whipped a familiar vial he’d evidently been holding all this time in front of her face and said, “I should watch you drink this down myself before the sheriff arrives. ‘Twill save him the trouble of a public hanging.”

  Gwynlyan’s head flinched back.

  “Who are you? Why do you want my wife dead?”

  Dead? With brows furrowed, her eyes still narrowed on the vial, she opened her mouth to speak, but could not form a single word on her tongue.

  “Speak!”

  “I—Bu—I—” She reached for the vial and he swung it out of reach. “ ‘Tis only a mild sleeping draught,” she said, blinking. In a flash, her mind cleared and dread gripped her like cold steel talons around her throat. Without thinking, she leapt to her feet and grabbed again for the vial, saying in a loud voice, “Are you saying that ‘tis not?”

  “SIT!” her son-in-law bellowed.

  ‘Twas, in a way she would ne’er be able to explain to herself or anyone else, the precise spark she needed to gain her composure. “Are you saying that ‘tis not?” she repeated in a much more even tone.

  Robert’s eyes narrowed as they did a scan of her frame from head to foot. Clearly, he did not like what he saw, for his upper lip twitched as he tried unsuccessfully to control a sneer. When his gaze resettled once again on her countenance, he said, “You are better than most of the traveling players I’ve seen. But, you will not fool me again. The sheriff will be here soon, and you will be taken into his custody. You will hang on the morrow.”

  Fear ripped at Gwynlyan’s insides, clutched her chest, closed her throat. Only after forcing down a swallow, did she manage to say just above a whisper, “I did not do this thing you accuse me of. I swear it.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “Why should you doubt me?” she rejoined. “You accuse me, yet you have given no proof, nor even a reason as to why you believe such.”

  He swung around and strode to the hearth, turned back to face her, positioned his body as before: Arms crossed, feet spread, and said, “Then I shall tell you….”

  As Gwynlyan listened to the accusations Wife Deirdre had made against her, to her reasons for Robert’s believing Gwynlyan the culprit in the crime, to Robert’s own suspicion that Vika’s tumble down the stairs had been a push by someone at this very keep, Gwynlyan realized two things: The first being that her worst fears had come to pass, and her daughter was now a target to Donnach and his minions; and the second being that if Gwynlyan held any hope of surviving long enough to warn Morgunn, to save her daughter’s life, and to possibly gain aid from Robert in that pursuit as well, she must confess the truth of her identity to him without delay.

  Just then, a trump sounded, indicating a visitor of some importance had arrived at the gate and Gwynlyan’s heart leapt into her throat at the same time she leapt from her stool, saying in a rush of words, “I am Gwynlyan of Aerariae secturae. Morgana is my daughter. I love her more than my own life. You must believe me, and you must help me protect her before ‘tis too late!”

  * * *

  Robert’s jaw dropped open. Everything within him revolted, as he took in the grayed and ashen-faced woman before him. In the seconds before his mind began functioning fully again, he looked for any indication of the beauty that belonged to his wife. Where his wife was of middle height, this woman was petite, where Morgana owned eyes of the bluest hue, this woman’s eyes were brown. This woman—this Gwynlyan of Aerariae secturae, if she was to be believed—would have been nearing her middle years when she went to childbed with Morgana. Yet—

  The older woman took two steps toward him and, wringing her hands, said, “I beg you, send the sheriff away, and I will tell all. Morgana’s father lives, too, and this”—she swept an arm in an arc—“danger she is in will not be eased with my death.”

  The decision was more a feeling than a thought and he gave her a sharp nod, saying, “Go through the back entrance. Return to the weavers’ chamber and I will come for you later, after I have sent the sheriff on his way.”

  Before the woman was at the doorway, his steward arrived to tell him of the sheriff’s arrival. Quickly, he set the man to follow the maid, realizing that she would no doubt try to meet with her husband, if she were truly Gwynlyan of Aerariae secturae, or with her accomplices, if she were truly a murderer, telling him that she was not to be detained unless she tried to go further than the boundary to the MacVie land.

  * * *

  Gwynlyan did not go to the weavers’ chamber, as Robert bade her, instead scurrying with much stealth out the back gate and then onward to the place where she and Morgunn met in secret each fortnight. They’d decided ‘twas too dangerous to meet more often, as, at any time, someone might grow suspicious and follow her. So, they’d decided on a code of sorts. A means of communicating when one of them had tidings, or needed to see the other. This time, she would leave under the stone the copper ring with the round ruby center he’d given her when they wed, which told him something of dire import had occurred and to meet her that night after the chimes of midnight.

  She’d already determined, in the early hours of the morn after their daughter lost her babe, to signal for him to meet her this eve, but she’d planned to do it later in the day, during the time that all were taking their evening meal, when there was little likelihood of discovery. But now, worried that if she waited, she might not get another chance to at least put Morgunn on guard that all was not right here, and knowing with certainty that her daughter was once again being targeted for murder by her uncle and his cohorts, and also feeling even more pressure to reassure herself of Morgunn’s continued safety, she would not delay.

  Morgunn had told her that he usually traveled past this place each day nearing compline on his way back from the goatherd’s hut some five miles away, where he’d gotten work.

  Her heart thudded against her rib cage when she thought of Morgunn’s reaction to her breaking her vow—breaking her silence—and telling Robert of Morgunn’s existence as well. But what else could she have done? If she had not revealed her relation to Morgana, she would, even now, be on her way to the sheriff’s gaol, where she’d eat her last portion of bread, swallow her last drink of water before the dawn broke, and the noose tightened around her throat, cutting off her breath, ending her life, taking away any chance she had of saving her daughter’s life, and curtailing all chance of e’er obtaining for herself, and her family, that thing she wanted most: Justice.

  * * *

  Hours later, after sending the sheriff off, Robert spoke with Wife Deirdre, not telling her what he’d learned, but telling her that, after questioning Modron, he was convinced she was not the one who’d filled the vial with the death draught, and that Wife Deirdre was to keep his counsel, speak to no one but himself about the incident until he’d routed the evildoer, else they might flee. Robert then made his way back to the weavers’ chamber to gain the answers he needed from this maid, this professed mother, of his wife. He’d still not been up to his bedchamber to see Morgana. Even if time had allowed, which it had not, he was not yet prepared to see the lingering heartache in her eyes, to be the brave and sturdy one while inside himself, he felt weak and impotent. Nor was he yet prepared to do as he must, and keep this new malignance in their midst a secret until she had recovered more from the devastation of the previous night.

  With effort, he turned his thoughts back to the task at hand. His steward had relayed to him that the maid had not gone directly to where the weavers did their work, but, instead, had fled to the dammed portion of the burn and left something under a stone—he knew not what—then had scurried back to the keep, and gone to o’erse
e the weaving, where she’d been e’er since.

  He shook his head. Aye, and alas. Tho’ ‘twas not settled as fact in his mind, still, and yet, he did not feel that the woman had done the deed she’d been accused of, and if she was who she claimed to be—and if ‘twas truth that Morgana’s father had survived that attack as well—then the attempt on his wife’s life, and on Vika’s, made much more sense to him.

  Except.

  ‘Twas clear the maid had left a directive for someone there at the burn. But for whom? An accomplice in this death plot? Or, mayhap, this Morgunn, this supposed-dead, long-lost father of his wife’s? Either way, he’d know by dawn. And justice would be swift, if he found that the woman had lied to him.

  However, he realized now, if ‘twere the case that she had lied, ‘twas a boon he’d not sent her along with the sheriff earlier, for he doubted not that the other player in this scheme was a man, and thus, that man would not be given over to the sheriff. Nay, he’d instead feel the sharp edge, the piercing weight through his gut, of Robert’s steel.

  * * *

  ‘Twas nearing the chimes of midnight when Robert followed Gwynlyan at a slow distance on her trek to the burn to meet with Morgunn.

  Upon hearing the full of her tale earlier in the day, he’d at last been convinced—almost—that she told the truth. After all these moons, all his queries into Morgana’s past, he’d finally gotten the answers he’d sought. At least, as many as Gwynlyan herself knew, or had surmised o’er the years. The fact that Donnach Cambel was behind this deadly scheme sent a rush of blood lust through his veins. For, if Gwynlyan’s tale proved true—and the final proof would be Morgunn Cambel—the accident in the old keep involving Vika was, in fact, a botched first attempt on his wife’s life, not Donnach’s daughter’s.

  So, now, the plan was set: Gwynlyan, who had left her wedding ring under the stone earlier in the day to give Morgunn the cue that something was amiss, that he should wait for her there tonight, would leave the keep first, and Robert would follow not long after. This would give her time—not a lot—to tell Morgunn all that had happened, and that he was now about to meet his son-in-law, at which point, Robert would then show himself.

  * * *

  Morgunn tore off a chunk of day-old bread with his teeth and began to chew before he took a long pull on the skin of ale he’d purchased from the alewife on his way through the small village that lay between this holding and the Norman’s, where the herder’s plot was located and the goats Morgunn helped to tend grazed. ‘Twas his first meal since noontime, and his insides yawned with hunger, even at the same time they twisted with dread.

  Why had she summoned him?

  Something dire was in the offing, his gut told him, tho’ he sent a silent prayer of thanks to God that his wife was not whisked away from him again, or worse, dead. But what of Morgana?

  Pressing the back of his hand to his mouth as he took the last chew before swallowing it down, he looked up through the canopy of trees, and into the night sky. The moon was high in the heavens, and he knew the time for their meeting was drawing nigh.

  Just then, he heard the snap of a twig, the whip of a leaved branch as it shot back in place, and suddenly, she was there, standing before him, and even through the dim of night, the silvered sheen of starlight, he could see that her bright amber hair was still dulled with ash, her pale, pink skin, still dusted with the stuff as well, and her frame, that he knew from his unobserved viewing of her midnight bath in the burn was more woolen padding than female form, still well-concealed. Aye, he’d seen the scars as well, and knew what they meant, who had given them her, and the thought of those marks ne’er ceased to buttress e’er more his determination to destroy those that had perpetrated these vile deeds upon his family. The corners of her lush mouth tipped in a shy smile and his heart fluttered. Someday…. Someday, he would at last melt her reserve and they would once again lay together as man and wife. Someday….

  Without realizing he was doing it, he rose to his feet, facing her fully, and extended his hand.

  She took the last two steps to him and settled her palm o’er his, which he immediately secured in his grasp with the curl of his long fingers around her own as he pulled her into his embrace, opening his mouth o’er hers and tugging her head back with his free hand gripping her plaited hair.

  She remained rigid in his arms and, squealing low in her throat, pushed against his chest until he released his hold. Immediately, she sent a furtive look behind her, into the darkness of the night forest, and said, “Nay, no more of that.” Swinging her gaze back to his, she urged him further into the light near the water’s edge. “I only have a moment or two to tell you all.”

  He gave a sharp nod of his head, indicating both acquiescence and understanding, and then waited in silence for her next words.

  * * *

  When Gwynlyan moved the man into the moonlight, Robert bit back a gasp. Morgana’s looks are his. Even with the knowledge that he would be meeting her father this night, it had still not prepared him for the strength of the resemblance between the two. Any kernel of doubt he’d yet harbored as to whether Gwynlyan was actually leading him to a foe, had now been completely destroyed as well. And, he admitted also, that even were the resemblance not so apparent, he’d already come to the same conclusion regarding the identity of this man, upon witnessing the strong passion he held for Morgana’s mother. It made Robert e’er more curious to see the woman as she truly looked, completely undisguised.

  He waited another moment longer, waited until the two heads, now bent together in murmured speech, lifted once more, waited even one short moment longer for Gwynlyan to turn her gaze in his direction, tho’ he had little doubt that she could see him where he stood in this lightless nook of shrub and wood, before he at last stepped from the shroud of darkness and into the patch of starlight in front of him.

  It boded well, Robert thought in that instant, that when Morgunn saw the unknown intruder, his arm shot around Gwynlyan’s waist, sending her behind his large frame. However, with his next words, it also became clear that Robert had not waited long enough to show himself.

  “—Who goes there?” Morgunn said, sliding his dirk from his belt.

  “—Nay! ‘Tis Robert!” Gwynlyan said.

  “—I am Robert MacVie, Morgana’s husband.” The last hung in the air between them, weighted in the moment, pregnant with portent.

  Finally, the spell of stunned silence was broken by Morgunn when he said to Gwynlyan, tho’ his sharp gaze remained fully upon Robert, “You were not so unwitting of his following you here, I trow, my love. Why is that? Did you break your oath to me, then?”

  Robert didn’t give Gwynlyan time to answer him, instead saying, “The small hours are upon us. Our time to plan is short. Let us leave the whys and wherefores for later. For now, know only this: Morgana’s life is in peril, and, with the exception of my trusted healer, and the men attempting the deed, we three are the only ones who know it and can aid her.”

  Gwynlyan gripped Morgunn’s shoulder, lifted up on her toes and said close to his ear, tho’ loudly enough for Robert to ken her words, “They slipped a death draught to our lass. ‘Tis why she lost her babe, I’m sure, and what I would have told you next, except….”

  Morgunn’s eyes narrowed on Robert and he gave her a curt nod. “Aye, except my son-in-law has more brawn than stealth.”

  If ‘twere anyone else other than his wife’s father who uttered such a challenge, Robert would have thrashed him where he stood. Instead, he sucked his cheeks between his teeth and kept silent. He did position himself in his best warrior stance, however, crossing his arms over his chest, spreading his feet apart and glaring back at him.

  Morgunn stepped toward him and it didn’t pass Robert’s notice that he had a swagger in his step as he did so. “You’ve lost too much of your Highland instincts, I trow. You’ve been too long at court, playing at war, instead of living it.”

  “Not so long I couldn’t vanquish an old ma
n like you, if I wanted.”

  “Enough!”

  Both men whipped their gazes to Gwynlyan. She moved from around Morgunn and stood between the two. “We’ve plans to make, and not more than an hour’s time to do it.” She took hold of her husband’s arm and pressed him to move closer to Robert, then motioned for them both to follow her to a place under a tree where they could all sit.

  Within that hour, and by the next dawn, their plans were set in motion.

  PART FOUR

  A Belief Erroneous

  “Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,

  And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.”

  A Midsummer Night’s Dream (Act I, Scene i)

  “For love is blind and may noght se

  Forthi may no certeinete

  Be set upon his jugement”

  Confessio Amantis (Incipit Liber Primus, 1.47 – 1.49)

  CHAPTER 14

  ROBERT CREPT INTO his bedchamber, the bedchamber he’d abandoned one night past to give Morgana the solitude she needed to rest and regain her strength, and made short, silent work of doffing his clothes before sliding into bed beside his sleeping wife.

  Within mere moments, the clean, womanly scent of fresh flowers and sunshine invaded his nostrils, intoxicated his mind, swept across his heart, and made his loins tense with need. She’d bathed and washed her hair, and every muscle in his body screamed for him to pull her to him, wrap her silken limbs around his hard, scarred frame, and take her, fill her up with his seed, give her another son to grow there in her womb.