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

by K. E. Saxon

  Her pulse pounded in her ears. She said the first thing that came to mind. “Nay, I’ll not. For my husband will catch and kill you first.”

  The red-beard had evidently heard her words, for he burst into laughter as well. The false priest met his eye and grinned. “Nay, dove. He’ll not,” he answered, his gaze ne’er turning to her.

  Panic sent her stomach into her throat. “What have you done?” A terrible foreboding squeezed at her heart.

  “Only a few strategically placed vats of animal fat, and Symon’s own recipe for Greek fire, my dove.”

  Her ears rung. “Wh—what do you mean?”

  He threw his head back and chortled.

  Symon answered. “Fire. Fire is what.”

  Robert! Modron! My clan! She bucked and lurched, bit and clawed her way out of his embrace and off the horse, landing hard on her hip and thigh, and skinning her cheek on the graveled road before she managed to roll and rise to her knees and then to her feet. She only made it ten to twelve running paces before he caught her by the arm and yanked her up against him, gripping so tight, she couldn’t take air into her lungs.

  “Nay, dove,” the false priest murmured against her cheek, his hot, moist breath wetting her skin, making it crawl. “You are mine...at least, until you are no longer.” He gripped her breast in a painful squeeze, sinking his teeth into the tender flesh at the base of her neck at the same time.

  She elbowed him in the ribs, letting go a roar of fury, but it only whetted his appetite for her more, as his other lecherous hand clamped her between her legs, fondling her roughly there, and pushing her left hip and buttock against his grinding, engorged manhood. “Aye, there’s fire in you, just like your mother.”

  Her racing heart tripped. A fleet thought: Was her mother dead, or alive? Nay, she had no time to ponder it now, as ‘twas plain he’d take her with violence here on the ground, and in front of the red-beard, if she didn’t manage to stop him. It demanded more will than she e’er believed she had, but she went slack in his brutal embrace, forcing her eyes to rest impassively upon the far distance, making sure to give him no sign that this attack on her frightened, pained, or affected her in any small way. And in that extended moment, she prayed that this new tack would dash his depraved desires, not ignite them even more.

  * * *

  Somewhere to Robert’s left, an owl screeched, then flapped its wings into flight, making the tree’s leaves, where it had so recently perched, shiver and shake. The dark shadow up ahead in the distance, which Robert had thought to be a river boulder stone, suddenly moved, became distinct, and he halted his tread, went still. The roe deer lifted his head, met his gaze briefly, then twisted and bolted into the stand of trees that graced the bank of Garbh Uisge.

  He’d been leading his horse on foot, and by the puny light of a small torch fire, since darkness fell two hours past, as the road was uneven, and his horse needed a rest from his weight. He’d have to stop and allow the animal, and himself, a rest, but not yet. Nay, not yet. For his gut was telling him ‘twas too soon, that if he kept moving, he’d gain on his prey. If not this night, then on the morrow, surely, and before they had an inkling of his presence. As well, there was the fear that gnawed and clawed like angry lions at his middle. The fear that if he ceased moving, if he rested the night, his wife would not be alive by the morn. As if a charm against evil, or a tangible connection to his wife, Robert ran the rough pads of his fingers o’er the rolled parchment in his pouch once more. I’ll let no harm come to you, Morgana. This I vow.

  He’d traveled another hour down the dark road that skirted the north bank of the river when he heard the low murmur of voices. He stilled, tensed and primed to strike, his eyes and ears honed. But as the sound became more distinct, he relaxed. ‘Twas merely some canonical chanting. There must be a cloister near. Perhaps they had some well water, and some grain for his courser—and a bit of bread and meat for him as well. He’d not stay long, but he knew ‘twas time to give his horse another rest, and if fortune shined on him, perhaps the clerics might have seen his wife with the two men, might be able to tell him that she still lived, might be able to say, for sure, how long ago they’d passed through.

  He began to jog, moving toward the sound, and ‘twas not long before he saw, twinkling in the blackness, several dark figures carrying tapers, and walking in a line. He slowed and stayed several paces behind them until they led him to the low stone gate that surrounded the court of a small chapel. As he watched them entering one-by-one through the door of the church, he tethered his horse to an iron ring in the gate, jogged over to the well and doused the torch in a bucket of water, then somberly, and quietly, followed the last of them inside.

  Pushing the hood of his mail back from his head, he went down on one knee and bowed his head, awaiting the completion of the monks’ service, and an indication from the abbot that he would be allowed an audience. After another quarter-hour, the abbot ended the service and came over to stand before Robert’s kneeling form.

  “I am Abbot Alasdair. By what name are you known, sire knight?”

  “I am Robert MacVie, Laird and Chieftain to the MacVie’s of Awe.”

  “Rise, Robert MacVie, and tell us what brings you to our humble church in the dark of night. Is aught amiss?”

  Robert came to his feet, only recognizing then how short of stature the corpulent man of God truly was, as, for a brief moment, Robert only saw the crown of the abbot’s shining tonsure before he stepped back a pace and craned his neck to meet Robert’s gaze.

  “I hunt the men who have snatched my wife.” The abbot’s eyes grew round. “There are two of them, and they are traveling with a woman—my wife. I believe she is dressed in plain wool, as a poor pilgrim.” Robert swept his gaze o’er all in the chamber. “Have they passed by here?”

  The abbot made a half-turn to include his brothers and said, “Nay, we’ve had no others rest here for many moons. Since Lenten last. Is that not so, Prior Fearghus?”

  A tall, gaunt, white-caterpillar-browed monk answered, “Aye, that is so, Father Abbot.”

  A youth, not more than sixteen summers, with black hair and pale eyes took two steps forward, saying, “I saw three travelers on the road not long before sunset, Father, when I was crossing the south glen in search of the two missing ewes.”

  “Were they on horseback?” Robert asked, moving around the abbot.

  “Aye, sire, they were, tho’ I was not close enough to see their garb, or their faces, clearly. Two rode on one horse, a man in black cloth—possibly a priest’s robe, but I cannot say for sure—and...and...aye, it could have been a lass riding with him, but the hood of her mantle hid her hair from view.”

  The priest! Of course! Why had he ne’er put that together before? “Aye, that would be them. I’m sure of it. And the other one? What of him?”

  The youth’s brows furrowed in thought. “As I said, I did not see their visages, but the second horseman was large, with red hair.” His eyes brightened. “And red beard!” he said, his voice lifted in excitement.

  The description sent Robert’s heart into his stomach. The apprentice! What a fool he’d been! Donnach’s minion had been directly under Robert’s nose all these moons, and he’d failed to uncover the man’s true purpose; failed to block the man from executing Donnach’s murderous plan; failed to keep Morgana safe; and, now that Robert’s suspicions regarding how the fire was set were confirmed, failed his clan as well.

  “They were traveling east?” Robert finally managed.

  “Aye, sire. East. ‘Twas nigh on four—nay, five hours past.”

  Robert turned and addressed Abbot Alasdair. “I cannot tarry long here, but would beg a meal for both my horse and myself, and an hour or two to rest him as well before I begin my hunt once more.”

  The abbot nodded and, with a comforting pat on Robert’s shoulder, led him through a short corridor off the nave and into the small chamber that was clearly being used as their refectory. He was given a pottage of venison
and root vegetables within moments of being seated, along with a tankard of ale. Robert made short work of downing the meal, then asked again that he might beg some grain for his horse as well.

  A half-hour later, he and his courser shared a stall filled with fresh hay, and at long last, he allowed himself to doze.

  * * *

  ‘Twas still dark when Robert woke with a start, his heart hammering in his chest. His body had betrayed his will and he’d fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep. But for how long? Pushing to his feet, he took precious moments to groom, feed, and water his courser before tacking it up again. Once out in the stable yard, he was able to gauge the time by the setting moon. He’d dawdled here at least two hours, ‘twas clear, but he had every belief that the two men who held Morgana captive had stopped for the night somewhere as well.

  Learning that his wife was still with the men late last eve had calmed Robert’s worry, if only by a small degree. For, they’d had more than ample time to kill her and dispose of her body this day past, if that had been their intention. Nay, ‘twas becoming plain to Robert that the men, Donnach’s minions, had some other plan in mind for Morgana—at least before they snuffed the life from her—which would give him the blessed time he needed to catch and kill them first. Donnach, he’d leave for his King—and Morgunn—to deal with.

  There were already a few lay monks and brothers moving about the small court, readying for their day’s labors when Robert passed through leading his steed. One of them, the youth from the night before, waved to him, then jogged over.

  “There is a small village, some few miles from here, where your lady and her captors may have taken their rest. ‘Tis not directly on the road, but off a bit to the north. There is a footpath to it, just look for an old, gnarled oak that sports a wooden sign on its trunk with ‘Ale’ scribed on it, and an arrow pointing to the path.”

  Robert gave him a grim nod. “My thanks. Here,”—he counted out 12 pence from his pouch and handed them to the lad—” give these to Abbot Alasdair, along with my thanks.”

  “Bless you, sire. I shall pray for your lady, and your victory.”

  Robert gave him another grim nod, then hoisted himself onto his mount and walked the courser out the gate.

  The sun began to rise as he traveled down the east road, the horizon ablaze in a shimmering gossamer veil of orange and yellow light. ‘Twas not long until he at last saw the oak the youth had spoken of and, as he came closer, the path as well. He veered to his left and maneuvered his courser along the well-worn, and somewhat o’ergrown trail. He’d traveled nearing a quarter-hour when, beyond a rise, he beheld in the distance a cluster of wooden, as well as wattle and daub buildings. The largest stood, with smoke rising in curls and twists from the center of its roof, on the east side of the path that continued on through the village.

  Allowing his horse to pick its way down the path’s incline, Robert took that time to study again the flattened grass; the infrequent clods of turned-up soil; the fresh horse tracks in both directions, indicating riders carrying some load had recently passed there. He was almost certain they were made by the mounts of the men he hunted, but he would know with certainty once he spoke to the alewife. And, mayhap, he might learn if the men let slip their exact destination once their tongues were loosed by drink.

  * * *

  By Morgana’s estimation, they’d traveled at least twelve miles o’er these three hours past, and she had little doubt they would have traveled further, had the darkness and pots in the road not slowed their mounts. She strained to remain forward, upright, and with always some small distance between her frame and that of her captor’s on the mount she’d been forced to share with him these long, unending hours since her capture.

  Thanks be to heaven that her ploy had worked, at least the once, and the false priest had let her be, had molested her no further, but she did not know if ‘twould be as successful, should she be forced to employ the ruse again.

  The time she’d spent bound to the gnarled oak this night past, not long after her attempt to fight and flee, had been the only rest Morgana had been able to attain. Her captors had left her there while they went into the village, down the rough-hewn path off the east road that led to an alehouse, so they might engage in a drunken revel, and find provender for them and their horses. It had surprised her, not an hour after the two men had left her there, when the red-beard returned for her and, after threatening to slice out her tongue if she uttered even one sound, had taken her back to the village with him, where she’d been put into service pouring ale out for all the patrons at the house.

  Aye, but it had proved more of a boon to Morgana than she’d hoped, for she’d managed to steal a blade from off one of the tables. Her conscience was sore, and she’d given an oath to herself that if God allowed her to survive, she’d return the knife to the yeoman she’d stolen it from, for she knew the price to replace such a worthy tool would feed the man for near a moon.

  She had no notion of when she might be able to put the weapon to use, but the having of it bolstered her lagging courage ne’ertheless. Do any come for me? Does Robert? She wanted desperately to crane her neck around and search the land behind them, but ‘twould only draw the false priest’s attention, and no doubt his libidinous wrath as well. Nay, she’d not take that chance.

  ‘Twas growing e’er more evident to her that, if she wanted to remain alive, she was going to have to save herself. She would look for any opportunity to gain her freedom, and she’d not hesitate to fight, if that was what was needed. In spite of the red-beard’s words of the night before, she’d gone into the village with a clear intention of begging refuge there from someone of import, of revealing that she was being held captive by men who intended to murder her. Unfortunately, she’d soon seen her intention would not be possible. For, there were only the alewife;—a hard, sharp-eyed woman who had naught to say to anyone if it did not pertain to fattening her coffers—drunken louts; ill-mannered boors; poor yeomen and tradesmen passing an hour there; and a serving maid that Morgana soon saw was serving up more than ale to the men when the brazen lass had gone out the back, hanging on the arm of a man, returning not a quarter-hour later, disheveled, red-cheeked, and limpid-eyed. Nay, Morgana had known then, in such vulgar company she’d find no protector.

  * * *

  “Aye, th’ three of ‘em passed time ‘ere durin’ th’ night, but leeft agin ‘fore th’ cock’s crow, soom three hours past,” the buxom, black-haired serving wench said, stepping nearer, so close to him now that he had an unhindered view of the tops of her creamy-white breasts. “But th’ priest said th’ lass was to be a maid to th’ red-haired merchant’s betrothed.”

  There was a time, before Morgana, Robert would have easily and gladly accepted the invitation, but now it served only to grind at his patience. With effort, he held back the rebuke that formed on his tongue and said instead, “She—the maid—She was in good health? No wounds or marks upon her?”

  “Nay, she was sound. Weel, ‘cept fer a scratch on her cheek. An’ th’ merchant e’en give ‘er o’er to me ma to help serve th’ drinkers their ale.”

  A scratch? Anger boiled in his gut. He’d flay them, then beat them, then kill them.

  The wench’s look grew shrewd. “Is she yers then? Has she ‘scaped yer bed ‘fore ye were doon wit’ ‘er?” Her long-lashed, glimmering brown eyes scanned with some avarice down to his groin, tho’ ‘twas well hidden by his tunic and mail “If ye’ve an itch, pleased I’d be to scratch it, if ye want.” Her gaze slid to the pouch of coin Robert held loosely in his hand at his side. “ ‘Tis eight pence a tickle I commonly ask, but fer ye, ‘tis naught.”

  Again, he bit back a sharp retort. “ ‘Tis a generous and tempting offer you give, lass, but I cannot tarry. I thank you for sharing what tidings you could regarding the lass I seek.” Robert fished six pence from his pouch and handed it to her. “Take this as recompense.” As she avidly counted the coins, he said, “Tell me, lass, know you where they
were heading?”

  She looked up and blinked at him, then answered, “Aye. Aye, they were goin’ to th’ ol’ burial site some miles distant. Joost follow th’ road east, then look fer th’ ol’ tumbled well, and a few miles past tha’, there be a path to th’ south. Take tha’, and ‘twill lead ye to th’ place.”

  With a nod, Robert swung around and mounted his courser. Once astride, he settled his gaze on the upturned visage of the wench once more. “My thanks,” he said, and with a dip of his head, turned and led the horse back toward the east road. He’d traveled only a few paces when he heard at his back, “Coom back to see me, if ye should want, and I’ll nay charge ye!”

  Robert smiled, in spite of his worry and his grim mood, and lifted his hand in salute.

  CHAPTER 18

  ‘TWAS IN THE gloaming by the time Morgana’s captors stopped at the base of a hillock. This second day of travel, the two men had been less anxious, had stopped more often to rest their horses, had not even ridden them hard, which told Morgana that no one had followed.

  For some miles now, a strong sense of recognition had pervaded her being, and now, seeing the ancient stones standing tall against the night sky, and the slab that lay askew atop what she knew to be a hidden underground chamber, her fragmented memories of this place coalesced. ‘Twas her and the other clan children’s secret fortress. A place they’d come to play, to look for fey folk, and to hold their pretend faery court. A distant cousin, she recalled, always insisted on being king.

  But, why had they stopped here? Was this the burial site of which they’d spoken this day past? Her heart tripped, then escalated in meter. She’d had it in her head that ‘twould be closed graves they’d bring her to, not here, where the ancients had held their pagan sacrificial rites.

  “They’ll ne’er think to look for her in this forsaken place,” the false priest said, pulling a flask of water from his satchel and taking a long swallow before continuing, “But it grows late, and as we’ve seen no sign of any who follow, I think it safe to bide the night here before we flee.”