by K. E. Saxon
The false priest reined in his mount, and the red-beard did the same.
“We’re far enough away now to drive our beasts at a slower pace,” the false priest said.
It had been at least a quarter-hour, by Morgana’s estimation, since they’d fled the site where her father had been hanged. Please let him have died quickly. The thought of him suffering there, still alive, yet tormented with pain, made her vision blur with tears. The knife wound had not spurted blood; it had gone in clean, so she believed ‘twould not have immediately ended his life. And she had no knowledge of hanging death; how long it took for the person to find his eternal peace. Was it mere moments, or longer still?
She tried to determine their current location, but she did not recognize the area. However, she did know they’d fled further south, which meant they were on, or near, the de Burgh holding. If only Guy was not at court! But, nay, even then, he’d surely not be wandering about this far from his fortress.
And Robert? Had he found the scroll yet? And if he had, had he rushed to find her, or had he been relieved that she’d taken the burden of their marriage off him so easily and willingly? She didn’t know which she wished for. Nay. She did. She knew what these men—well, this man—was capable of, for she remembered it all now. What he’d said to her mother when she’d asked where her husband was: “He is dead, my dove, clove through, then dropped into the loch. And now, Donnach will get his lands, and I will get my prize as well.” She also knew that this man—this false priest—was the devil who’d forced himself upon her mother, with her small daughter as terrified witness; that he was the man that haunted her dreams, whether waking or slumbering; that he was the Ankou who’d carried the limp, lifeless corpse of her mother from the cot that night, demanding silence from Morgana, else she would be next.
He’d left her alone in that dark, dank, abandoned cot, with the fire set to her family’s covered cart licking, angry and hot, just outside the door. The flames, she knew, were meant to engulf the cabin as well, but rains had come, hard and fierce, and blessedly, they had not. She’d spent the remainder of that black, lonely night shivering and weeping in the cold corner she’d been forced into, not allowing a single sound to emerge lest the man return, and too terrified to venture forth, lest wolves be on the hunt for their next meal.
Sometime in that night, she’d drifted into a deep, Cimmerian sleep, until, come the dawn, a stranger, another minion of her uncle’s, had arrived. He’d been angry to find that the dwelling still stood, that she still lived, and had moved toward her with hands outstretched, as if to strangle her, but when she’d cowered and covered her head, unable now to utter a sound, he’d halted. After a moment, she’d heard him mutter that he’d not the stomach to kill an innocent bairn, then yanked her up, hoisted her onto his horse, and flew with her to the coast, where he’d given her o’er to this man—this devil—once more. It hadn’t taken him long to realize she’d lost her voice, and sometime in the night, her memory and the black pigment to her hair, as well. He’d paid a sour-faced stout-bosomed woman to sail away with her to the nunnery in Brittany, where Morgana had been left for years and years without voice or memory of her life prior. She’d gone mute and stoic, and ‘twas only through the years of loving kindness she’d received from the nuns that she’d later warmed to them and accepted that what e’er had happened to her had been the Lord’s will, was part of his plan for her, and must ne’er be questioned.
Another thought struck, and her heart plummeted. Did Vika know of her father’s betrayal of his own blood? And if she did? If she did, then Morgana had put Robert in grave danger! For, her uncle, ‘twas clear, was capable of any low deed to gain his own ends, and if Vika was an accomplice, even simply by keeping her silence, then one must assume that she was capable of such evil as well.
‘Twas another quarter-hour before either of the men spoke again.
“All right. Our mounts are breathing easier now. We will run them again, traveling another four or five miles in this direction, then we’ll cut back to the road leading east.”
“To the burial site?”
“Aye, to the burial site.”
CHAPTER 17
‘TWAS AS ROBERT took the last step down the stairs into the antechamber of the great hall that he was reminded of the guest he’d left so suddenly nearly a half-hour past.
“Is there aught amiss with your lady Morgana?” Guy asked, striding toward him.
Robert halted.
Guy’s eyes did a quick sweep of him, then met his once more, a glint of alarm added to the worry shining in their depths. “You’re in your mail. Is there danger?”
“Aye—aye. I’ve little time,” he said, and strode to the door of the armory, taking long strides.
His guest followed.
“Morgana has fled with some pilgrims.”
“How long ago?”
Robert took up sword and shield then hurried back across the antechamber, out the door of the keep and into the courtyard, with Guy on his heels. Motioning for one of the stablemen to bring him his steed, he said at last, “Dawn.”
“They’ve not got far, I’m sure, as they are no doubt traveling by ox and cart. You’ll get to her in a trice.” There was a brief pause in which Robert felt his guest’s hard gaze on him before Guy continued, “But why the battle weapons, then? Surely, there is little peril from a few devout pilgrims?”
Robert turned to his guest and hesitated, but finally said in low tones, so that only he would hear, “There is more: Her uncle has sent men to murder her, but she knows naught of the plot.”
Two stablemen brought both their horses to them and Guy swung up onto his saying, “I’ll go with you, then. In case there is need for another well-trained sword hand.”
“My thanks.” Robert turned to one of the stablemen and said, “Where is the tinker that I’ve seen about the past few days?”
“He left this morn, Laird. Early. Behind that family of pilgrims.”
With a nod, Robert mounted the courser. “We must fly.”
After they were out of the gate, with several of Robert’s guards riding a small distance behind, Guy said to him, “So you believe the tinker is in on the plot?”
Robert took a quick glance behind him and saw that the men were far enough back not to hear him, if he spoke quietly. “Nay. ‘Tis Morgana’s father in disguise.”
“Her father!” Guy said in like tones. “But, I thought—”
“Aye, as did we all—and, more importantly, as did Donnach Cambel, and does still, which is why we’ve kept it hidden from all but a chosen few. We’ve been attempting to find and capture the men he sent here to harm Morgana, then lay a trap for him.”
“Does King William know of this? Surely, he would—”
“Aye, he knows, and has been doing what he can to locate any who might betray Donnach for coin or position, but he has yet to be successful.”
“In which direction do we travel?”
“East. Unless we discover something amiss.”
“They can’t have gone more than ten to twelve miles at the most by my estimation, so we should reach them in not more than three hours—two hours, if we push our mounts.”
“Aye. I confess, I’ve a dread in my gut, and ‘tis telling me to speed to her, but if aught is amiss, ‘twill work against me—us—if we ruin our animals in doing so.”
“You are right. And we might miss something we need to see, if we fly past too swiftly.”
* * *
Morgunn lay curled on his side, the dirk he’d used to free himself on the ground only inches from his still-twitching body. ‘Twas an agony he’d not expected, this prickling and shooting pain exploding through his frame, all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes, with the rush of blood and vigor that pushed anew through his veins.
He’d swooned once he’d dropped to the ground, and he had no notion of how long he’d lain here afterward. He only knew he would not be able to rise until this suffering lessened. He’d gamb
led and won, for that he sent a prayer of thanks to heaven. And now he knew the face of his daughter’s enemies, as well as what direction they were headed with her. All that was required of him was to survive long enough to relay as much to Robert. This time, his brother would pay. Not only with the loss of land and power, but with his life. There would be no reprieve; there would be no mercy.
He’d landed in a crumpled mass on his side. With a grunt and sharp intake of breath, he managed to reach for, and capture, the dirk in his fist once more. Reaching down, he awkwardly, and painfully, sawed at the loosened rope that bound his ankles. The effort made flashpoints of light swim in his vision, and the blessed blackness of an imminent swoon beckoned, but he fought hard against it, and finally got the rope off.
‘Twas several more moments before he felt he could try to stand. It took all the strength he could muster to roll o’er onto his stomach and rise to his hands and knees. The strenuous attempt brought a murky fog to the periphery of his vision and he had to rest without motion with his head dangling between his shoulders and his lids closed for a bit of time.
The dirk wound stung now that the sharp tingling had lessened, and he opened his eyes again to view the dark round stain and the clean slice in his tunic, where the knife had entered. Alaric’s panic had either given him bad aim, or he had little knowledge of the exact location of lung or heart in a man’s chest. Either way, Morgunn praised heaven for that bit of unexpected good fortune, for it too easily might have gone another, much more dire, direction. Nay, this wound was not fatal, and he’d survived worse, so he ignored the petty annoyance and focused once more on gaining his feet.
He found he could not do it alone, no matter the strong desire, nor the chiding voice in his brain telling his body to follow its orders. So, in desperation, as he felt the time for successful action slipping away, he gripped the dirk in his hand and crawled to the trunk of the same tree from which he’d been strung, and girding it with his arms, used it for leverage as he at last, and finally, came up into a standing position.
His legs did not want to hold him, and his knees bent, but he gripped the trunk as if he were a drowning man on a sinking ship, until his limbs stopped quaking beneath him. His breath blew harsh from his lungs and out his mouth, causing the ache in his throat to worsen, but still he would not give in to it.
After a short while, he felt steady enough to attempt to walk, and was grateful when he was able to take several staggering steps without falling on his face. Standing, swaying in place after each set of steps he took, ‘twas not more than another quarter-hour before he at last made it to the edge of the grove.
At this slow rate of pace, he knew that ‘twould be past sext, and possibly nearing nones by the time he made it within the walls of the MacVie fortress once more. And if Robert has already gone in false pursuit of the pilgrim wain? Then he would fly to their side. In the state you are in? You’ll not make it to the crossroads. Aye—aye, he would. Or die in the attempt. But, I shall also send a missive to the King, for the sake of my daughter’s safety.
* * *
They were nearing the crossroads when Robert happened to glance toward the grove of oaks up ahead and saw a man holding his palm to his side and stumbling forward. “There!” he said to Guy, then spurred his horse from a trot into a gallop. ‘Twas not until he was several yards away that he recognized that the man was Morgunn.
Robert reined in his mount and leapt from its back with the animal still in motion, the force of which gave him the added speed needed to reach his father-in-law in a mere twinkling. However, ‘twas still too late to catch him up before he crumpled to the ground, wheezing in shallow breaths.
“Can you sit a horse?” Robert asked him.
For answer, Morgunn gave him a nod.
Robert saw the red and swollen rope marks around his father-in-law’s neck, as well as the patch of blood that stained his tunic, and knew instantly what they portended. “Donnach’s minions?”
Morgunn nodded. “They...,” he rasped, “...have...have my daughter.”
Guy arrived then. “Her father?” he asked Robert.
Robert nodded, lifting his father-in-law up using a shoulder under the man’s arm, and an arm around his back. “Know you in which direction they have fled?”
“Aye,” Morgunn croaked. “South.”
“South?”
“You—argh!—will find their tracks there,” Morgunn pointed to an area behind the grove. “ ‘Tis been a while, but I’ve lost time, so I cannot say for sure.” He sucked air in and out of his lungs for several heartbeats, then continued in a stronger voice, “They are headed for an ancient ritual site, but I know not which.” Morgunn gripped Robert’s arm. “Find my daughter. Find her before he defiles her, before he does to her what he did to my Gwynlyan.”
Robert’s heart sped. “Aye, I will.” In all this time, he’d only thought of the minions’ goal to murder, ne’er that they’d ravage her first. His hands, clammy with sweat, fisted at his sides. If she’s been used for their base pleasure, I shall castrate them, stuff their tarses in their gobs, sew their lips shut, then I shall kill them.
Even more anxious now to continue on, and seeing that the strain of speaking was diminishing Morgunn’s strength, Robert questioned him no further. In twenty more struggling steps, they reached the group of guards. Robert said to the first, “This man fought to save my wife’s life from freebooters. Take him directly to my wife’s maid, Modron. Tell her he is to be given a chamber inside the keep, along with what e’er care Wife Deirdre decrees.”
“Aye, Laird.”
After hoisting him up on his guard’s horse and taking a moment to watch the pair ride off so that he might confirm that Morgunn would, indeed, stay mounted, Robert swung back up onto his courser again, saying, “We must fly.”
They’d traveled some distance before Guy asked, so that only Robert would hear, “Why did you not tell the guard that the man with whom he was entrusted was your father-in-law?”
“I know not if they left someone behind to continue spying, and Morgunn is an even greater prize to Donnach than is my wife.”
* * *
A half-hour and a quarter later, Robert, Guy and the remaining guards stopped at a small trickling burn to water their horses. Yet again, his hand slid o’er the pouch at his side that held Morgana’s letter, itching to bring it out and read it another time, but more slowly, with hope of finding some unwritten reason, other than the one declared, for leaving him without a word, without one inkling of her worry, of her intent to do so. He looked behind him and as he did, something odd, some design on the horizon, unnatural in color and placement, and in the direction of his own holding, caught his attention. He blinked, then focused with more precision. His mind and body went on full alert. “Guy,” he said, gripping the other man’s arm without realizing.
Guy whipped his attention from the stream where his horse was drinking deeply and turned it to Robert. “Aye?”
“Tell me that is not smoke coming from my holding.”
Guy followed the line of Robert’s gaze with his own. “Holy Mother of God. Aye. Aye, ‘tis yours.”
The cogs in Robert’s mind whirred. “I must continue on to save my wife.” He swung his sights on Guy. “Will you go back with the guards and do all you can to get those within the keep to safety—forget not that Morgana’s mother and father are within the walls as well—then do what you can to put the fire out?”
“Of course.” Guy said naught else, simply mounted his steed and began to fly back in the direction he’d come, not awaiting the guards.
“Rally our neighbors, if need be!” He called to Guy’s back, satisfied when the man lifted his hand in recognition and accord as he galloped away.
Robert ran towards his men, who were several yards down stream from him. “Make haste! Go with Guy de Burgh!” he commanded. “Our keep is afire!”
A chorus of agitated “Ayes” filled the air as the men swung their horrified gazes in the directi
on of the MacVie land and scrambled onto their horses.
“Follow Guy de Burgh’s command, for he acts as my proxy. Do what you must to save our people, then do what you can to save our fortress!”
* * *
Alone now, Robert hurriedly finished watering his horse, took several handfuls to drink himself, then mounted and quickly picked up the trail of his quarry once more. As he flew across the glen, it took everything within him to maintain the single-minded focus needed to the goal most paramount and to stifle the worry and ill-boding that threatened to rise up within him at any moment with regard to the welfare of his keep and clan.
* * *
Sunset came late this time of year, and tho’ the two men had ridden at a slower pace once they’d gained the road east once more, Morgana battled fatigue. Hypnos poured out sleep upon her, enticing her to succumb to the divine torpor he offered, making her lids heavy and her mind muddled. She struggled mightily to stay awake, to shed the fog that crept slowly in, to concentrate on the direction in which the men were moving, on what they were saying to each other, on any small chance she might have to escape them, and to push away the waking dreams of violence and fire that crowded in uninvited.
A piercing pain at the tip of her breast yanked her back from the edge of oblivion and she cried out, wrenching away. In a fog, she tried lifting her hand to cover the pained region, but met the resistence of the cord that still bound her wrists. ‘Twas in that moment that she became aware of the false priest’s thumb stroking o’er the same stinging nipple. “Nay!” she shrieked, and tried to twist out of his hold. The maneuver was both a success and a failure, for tho’ he released possession of her breast, he gripped her waist with a violent passion that frightened her even more.
A low rumble of angry laughter came from him then. “You are as well-formed as your mother,” he murmured against her ear. “You shall make a fine replacement for my games I’ll wager. Very fine indeed.”