by K. E. Saxon
* * *
It took a bit of physical maneuvering, as well as gentle coaxing of his ox to get his wain turned around on the narrow path, as ‘twas heavily loaded with metal, and a few wooden wares, but, after almost a half-hour, and a small crack in the axle, Morgunn at last managed it, and he and his daughter were at last plodding back toward the MacVie holding. If he was careful, and if good fortune held, they’d make it at least to the gates before they lost a wheel.
He wanted desperately to ask why she’d left her husband, but knew he’d already o’erstepped his place by taking charge of her and forcing her to return with him. Unless, of course, he told her who he truly was, which he’d not do. At least, not until he’d returned her to safety. He realized ‘twas time to reveal all to her, otherwise, she might risk her life again without realizing. Just as she’d done this day.
“She suffers….” His wife’s words came back to him and this time, he kenned the true depth of what Gwynlyan had tried so hard to relay that night. Aye, when they were secure within the walls of the keep once more, he’d tell his daughter the truth.
They were nearing the fork in the path, one veering west, one veering east, when Morgunn felt a jolt on his side of the cart. He pulled on the reins and whipped his head around, saying aloud to no one, “What’s this?” The ox hadn’t even fully stopped, and Morgunn’s glance hadn’t yet reached the back end of the conveyance when all at once a loud crack rent the air and the wain leaned. The ox let out a sharp bellow, as its cumbersome burden tilted almost completely onto its side, while pots clanged and clattered onto the path. Morgunn was flung out as well, with his daughter’s weight aiding the descent to the ground. Instinctively, he secured her in his embrace so that his frame took the impact. With his vision still spinning from the knock he’d taken to the back of the head, they both lay there stunned and still for an extended moment, until he heard the ox scream again and start to pull forward, trying to get free of the harness that was choking him.
With a quick look at his daughter to make sure she was uninjured, he scrambled to his feet and ran to the distressed animal, then quickly released it from its cumbrance. The ox staggered back a few steps, then turned, as if naught was amiss, and began to graze again at the side of the road.
When he shifted back around, he was surprised to find his daughter busily gathering up the stray pots and other wares from the ground and making a neat stack of them near the tipping cart. Without saying a word, he squatted next to it, craned his neck to look at the underside, and saw what he’d expected to see: A broken axle.
There was naught for it. They’d have to walk the remainder of the way back to the holding. And, if fortune shone on them, his son-in-law would have discovered his wife’s disappearance and would meet them on their way. He only prayed Donnach’s cohorts were not about. A chill of trepidation ran down his spine. He liked it not, being so open to attack, with only a meager dirk, and no sword for protection.
* * *
Symon mounted his steed, saying, “ ‘Tis glad I am to be out of those workman’s weeds and back in finer cloth again.”
“ ‘Tis a boon that they travel in a covered cart, for with the added load, they will not have got as far,” Alaric said, hoisting himself into his saddle. “We shall cross the heath to where the path forks. ‘Tis, I think, the shortest distance to our goal.”
Symon nodded. “Lead the way.”
* * *
With Grímr and Vika well on their way, and the brief discussion with his mother-in-law relaying all that had been decided, as well as his need for her to take full control of his wife’s duties as castelaine for the time being accomplished, Robert turned and began climbing the stairs leading to his bedchamber.
Wife Deirdre had told him early this morn that Morgana had grown restless in her seclusion and wanted to return to her daily tasks. In fact, his wife was becoming more difficult to keep confined to her chamber without force, and he could not allow that. Tho’ if it came to choosing between imprisoning her against her will or telling her that someone had tried to kill her—and had succeeded in killing their unborn babe—he didn’t know which he’d choose. For, either option would no doubt send her into an even worse state than she was in already. Mayhap, one from which she’d ne’er recover.
Nay, he must somehow soothe her, keep her believing ‘twas the right thing to do, the best thing for her to do.
He was several steps from the landing when his steward called to him from below, saying Guy de Burgh awaited him in the great hall.
Robert pivoted and trotted back down the steps, saying, “My thanks. Have some ale brought in.”
* * *
Morgana grabbed hold of the tinker’s outstretched elbow for leverage as she slid her foot from one of her low leather shoes and shook from it the pebble that had lodged there. She was just slipping the covering back in place when she heard the sound of horses’ hooves pounding o’er the heath to her right. Startled, she whipped her head around and quickly stood, fear spiking inside her that ‘twas her husband she’d see galloping toward her.
Vaguely, she became aware that her traveling companion had gone rigid beside her as well, and from her periphery she saw a spark of steel flash in his hand. “Keep your eyes down, what e’er you do,” he murmured gruffly, then pushed her behind him. She saw then that he’d slit the back of his tunic and tucked the dirk inside a leather sheath strapped to his waist there. Who did he fear these men to be? Freebooters? Her heart lurched in her chest and began to speed. Surely not. But who else then? With hands that trembled, she folded the gap in the slit closed more fully and pressed her chin to her chest.
All at once, the men were upon them, waiting until they were near to trampling them before pulling sharply on their reins, causing dirt and gravel to fly up. A pebble hit Morgana on the cheek and before she realized what she was doing, she’d jerked her head up and lifted her hand to her bloodied cheek. The tinker lunged forward with a guttural cry in the same moment that Morgana’s eyes landed on her uncle’s priest. She staggered back and her heel landed on the side of a hole in the path. Her ankle twisted painfully and she fell backwards onto her elbows and her backside, making the covering on her head fly off.
“ ‘Tis the mute! Get her!” the priest yelled to the other man and when he did so, Morgana’s horrified gaze shifted to him. The apprentice at the well! She struggled to gain her feet, but her ankle gave way when she tried to put weight on it, and she fell back again just as the large red-bearded man gripped her by the waist and flung her o’er his shoulder. “What fortune!” he said to the priest. The hard shoulder pushing into her chest made it impossible to take in more than a scant bit of air.
“Make haste!” she heard the priest say.
Her heart thudded against her breastbone. What is happening? She blinked the floating lights from her eyes, then switched her gaze to the tinker. The priest had somehow gagged him and tied his hands behind his back while she was being captured. She lifted her eye to his and, for yet another time that day, a frisson of recognition passed through her as he conveyed to her with only a look that all was not lost and she must not fret.
Her effort toward calm only lasted another moment, however, for, with the priest’s next words, she knew all was lost.
“We’ll hang him o’er there, in that stand of trees,” the priest said, pointing. “And I’ve taken his purse, so any who find him will think ‘twas thieves who did the deed.”
Morgana’s heart raced so hard that it ached. She lifted her eye again to the tinker, and found his countenance stolid. How could he remain so unmoved? In the next instant, she was hauled onto the priest’s mount, and when he slithered up behind her, her skin crawled.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she swallowed back the bile. The horse began to move and, once again, she swung her gaze around to the tinker. He was now seated on the other man’s horse, with that man riding in front of him, and with a rope around his and his captor’s waist securing him there. Before she had tim
e to form another thought, they were flying toward the grove of oak, and ‘twas all she could do to keep from hurtling off her seat. Her heart sank into her stomach. I am to blame for this. If she’d not fled this morn, the tinker would now be about his daily tasks, not here, riding toward his own hanging. And she...well, what e’er became of her, she surely deserved. For, she’d clearly not done God’s will. Yet...she’d been so sure that God had brought those pilgrims for her.
But, she’d been wrong, and now her sin was so grave, she’d no doubt burn in hell.
* * *
“He is a good King,” Guy explained, “but his coffers are low, and he must, as he duly pricked my memory, be e’er-vigilant of John of England.” He dropped his gaze to his tankard and idly twisted it to and fro where it rested on the table. “He has ne’er forgotten Alnwick, nor what he was forced to do at Falaise.”
Robert, arms crossed on the wooden surface, drummed his fingers against his elbow. “Aye, ‘tis more than understandable, yet…. Aargh!” Swinging to his feet, he strode several paces away with his arms firmly akimbo. After a moment, he turned back to his guest, continuing, “Exceedingly vexing, as well.”
One corner of Guy’s mouth lifted as he leaned forward. “Aye, and that, I am sure, is why he also wanted your memory well-stirred that he would not have given his consent for you to wed with Morgana, no matter her uncle’s wishes, if ‘twere not for the coin I offered in your stead.”
Robert grinned, in spite of his ire, and opened his mouth to give a biting retort, when a loud scuffle came from beyond the door of the great hall, followed by the anxious, low tones of men’s voices. The thought fled as he bolted toward the entry. Morgana!
He flung the door wide and was met with two sets of eyes, round in either astonishment, or fear, he knew not which. “Speak,” he said to his cousin. In his periphery, he saw the door guard step away several paces and resume his post.
“The lady Morgana is not in her chamber, and some of her ladies’ things are missing. Sh—”
Robert shoved past him and tore up the stairs, bellowing as he went, “Where is Wife Deirdre?”
“She is awaiting you in your bedchamber, Laird,” his cousin replied from not far behind him.
“How long?”
“From my guess, since dawn.”
They’d made the landing and were now jogging toward his chamber door. “ ‘Tis nigh on five hours then,” Robert said. “She could be anywhere, she could be...” dead.
“My pardon, Laird. I-I do not—”
“Nay. Later. I must find my wife.” With a yank of the handle, Robert threw the door wide. His gaze landed immediately on the distraught healer.
“She fled, Laird,” the healer told him. “She was no’ taken.”
“We cannot know that for sure,” Robert said with force. Crossing the room in two strides, he studied first the washstand, stained with smears of what looked to be dark ink, yet empty of her brush and comb, then scanned the rest of the chamber, noting the odd bulging mass under a blanket by the hearth. “She may have been wiled.”
“She left ye a letter, Laird. Or, someone did.” Wife Deirdre handed him the scroll.
As Robert unfurled the small square of parchment, his cousin said, “She made me believe that lump there,” pointing to the blanket, “was Wife Deirdre’s daughter, then bade me to do a task for her. I ne’er would hav—”
Robert held up his hand and said, “Enough,” as he began to read. A vise of both anguish and fear gripped his insides. ‘Twas true: She’d left him. He strode toward the door. “If I am to retrieve her and return before night falls, I must leave forthwith.”
* * *
“Here,” the priest said to the red-beard as he reigned in his mount and looked up into the boughs of a large oak. “This one has a good-sized branch. Just there.” He pointed. “It should hold him.”
This man was no priest, that much Morgana had at long last perceived. In the past moments, as they traveled toward the grove, she’d also gathered that she was their true quarry, and evidently had been for quite some time. They spoke freely between themselves, as if, because she was mute, they believed her to be deaf as well.
Or, mayhap—and this was even more chilling—they simply realized that she was no match for their strength and would not escape their plans for her, no matter if she attempted such or nay.
The red-beard slid from his horse then yanked the tinker off as well, throwing him to the ground.
“Ow! Ya deevl’s spawn!”
“Whist!” the false priest yelled, kicking the tinker in the chest.
Whist...whist…. Whist, while I lay claim to my prize. The words spun in Morgana’s head and her vision tunneled as she watched the tinker’s face land in the dry sticks and other fallen plant debris that littered the area under the canopy of branches and leaves.
The tinker lifted his blue gaze to hers and in that suspended moment, a flood of memories flashed in her mind. Papa! Her vision cleared. She flung herself from the back of the horse and knelt down, shielding him with her body. She’d scarcely gotten her arms around him before she was wrenched back up.
“Tie her hands and feet,” the false priest told the red-beard.
Manacles of flesh, sinew, calluses and bone gripped her wrists, but she twisted and turned, pulled and kicked. He snatched her head back with a fist in her hair and shook her, growling, “Be still!”
“No!!” she bellowed back, slamming her elbow into his solar plexus and grinding the heel of her uninjured foot into his instep.
“She’s got her voice back, it seems,” the red-beard said in a strained voice as he grabbed her around the waist and lifted her off her feet. She tried to elbow him again, but the blows found no purchase.
“Be still, m’lady!” she heard the tinker, her father, say and she swung her gaze to his. His look—it held a message, but she knew not what. “Be still,” he said again, this time with less force, but with more surety. “Do no’ figh’ them becooz o’ me.”
The false priest stepped toward her and lifted a lock of her hair, caressing it between thumb and forefinger. “He speaks rightly, my dove. Be a peaceable little bird, and you may yet live to see another dawn.”
She gathered a pool of spit in her mouth, but before she let it fly, she glanced at her father and he shook his head. Then, almost imperceptibly, he tilted his head at the false priest, indicating she should do as the man said, so she went slack and allowed the red-beard to drop her to her feet and continue trussing her wrists. The red-beard went down on one knee and was about to tie her ankles when the false priest said, “Nay. Just the wrists for now, I’ve changed my mind.”
“Are you sure? She seems awfully attached to this peddler. She may give us trouble again when we put the rope on him.”
“Aye, just the wrists. She’s a sore ankle for now, she’d not get far.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “And muffle her, as well.”
The red-beard shrugged and returned to a standing position.
Her gaze ne’er left her father while she was forced to silence anew, then settled on the back of the false priest’s mount once more. Again, she wondered how her father could be so calm in the face of his imminent death. Yet, now that she’d had another moment to think on why he’d been so keen to stop her from fighting her captors, she realized that he wanted her to have a chance at rescue, and if they killed her here and now, there would be none.
* * *
“Make haste,” the false priest told the red-beard a time later as he swung one end of the rope o’er a broad tree limb, “but be thorough, ‘twill not be good for us if the rope fails.”
“Aye...argh...he’s a heavy one,” the red-beard said as he hoisted Morgana’s father up, using the long-tail of the rope that was coiled around his neck and o’er the branch. “We must be miles away, and quickly, else we shall hang beside him, I trow.” Her father hadn’t said another word since speaking to her earlier, and now he seemed resigned to his fate, his eyes downcast, his fr
ame loose, his hands and feet, fettered.
Her father was still no longer. His body jerked and twisted, his face turned red, then blue. A shuffling noise, not too far off, came to them, and the two men panicked. The false priest pushed the red-beard toward his mount, saying between his teeth, “Go! Make haste! Make haste!” then stabbed her father in the chest with a dirk that seemed to come from nowhere.
“Papa!” she screamed, tho’ the sound was muffled by the oiled cloth they’d used to silence her, but her father made no sound or movement.
The false priest leapt upon his steed behind her, and her two captives ran their horses at break-neck speed, not back to the road, as Morgana had expected, but in the opposite direction.
Her body shook, her heart ached, her mouth dried. All is lost...all is lost...all is lost. Nay. Nay. She would pray. Heavenly Father, if it be your will, lend me your strength and courage to escape these terrible men.
With her wrists bound behind her, she was having difficulty staying seated, and if ‘twere not for the false priest’s arms at her front and back holding her in place, she would have fallen off the racing animal already. Her stomach would not be still, it roiled and turned with every pounding beat of the horse’s hooves across the great expanse of earth. Where were they taking her? She tried to remember every word they’d spoken since she’d been seized by them, but naught made sense. They’d talked of a place, but not by name, that they’d used before, but it gave her no clue of how far they would be traveling. Nor had they given her any indication of their plans for her. A flash-memory of the violence against her mother sent a chill down her spine, and her gorge up.
She gagged and coughed.
“If you spew, you’ll choke. And if it lands on me, I’ll slap you so hard, your ears will ring,” the false priest hissed.
She nodded and swallowed, afraid to look at him, lest he take that as an offense and slap her despite her submission to his will.