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

by K. E. Saxon

  “Where is the load of copper bullion we were promised at Lenten to do this deed? He will not yet have got the missive we gave coin to the lad to deliver to him in the last village we passed through, so he still knows not our plan.”

  “ ‘Tis on a ship, harboured at Inverleith, and awaiting our arrival. But we’ll not get our hands on it until he’s sure his niece is dead, and no one has traced the vanishing back to him.”

  “But if he does not pay...?”

  “He’ll pay. He filled my coffers well with the first of his schemes, and then you reaped the benefit of that payment to me as well. He shall honor his debt to us, this I vow.” The false priest pointed to the slab that covered the underground chambers at the top of the mound. “Move the stone and prepare the place. I’ll bring her up in a moment.”

  The red-beard gave a nod, slid from his horse, walked it several paces away to one of the standing stones, tied it there, then lumbered up the incline.

  After his cohort was out of earshot, the false priest slid from his mount, then yanked her by one of her bound arms, making her topple in an awkward fall forward from the horse, twisting her still tender ankle yet again, and nearly spraining it as she plummeted into his rough embrace.

  Without mercy, he dragged her with him to the stone and tied his own mount there as well, then bent down and pressed his cheek to hers. “I thought to share you with Symon,” he hissed in her ear, “before we end this ’venture, but I think now...not.” He gripped her buttocks until they stung, and pressed her mons into his repulsive arousal. Her gorge threatened to come up and she shook her head.

  His hot serpent’s tongue slashed o’er her earlobe. “I’ll send him off on an errand later, so that we can be alone,” he hissed in a whisper.

  “Nay! Never!” She tried to twist from his hold, a squeal of exertion exploding from her throat. When he only laughed and squeezed her tighter—so tight, it cut off her wind—and then clamped his wet, acrid mouth to hers, she bit down hard on his lip until she tasted blood.

  “Ow-w—You shrew!” He flung her from him and she fell onto her side at the base of the grass-covered hillock, scraping again the same cheek as the night before, making it sting and, no doubt, bleed afresh. Thankfully, her skirts had not risen enough to reveal the purloined weapon she’d strapped to her calf. Tho’ her wrists were still bound behind her, she struggled to rise. The effort nearly put her shoulder out of joint, but she finally made it to a sitting position. She’d barely caught her breath before he hauled her to her feet, wrenched her around and pushed her, making her stumble but not fall, as she was forced to walk up to her grave.

  * * *

  Robert tied his horse to a tree a half-mile from the place he’d seen his quarry turn off the path they’d been on for o’er an hour. ‘Twas not more than a quarter-hour more before he saw in the growing darkness the licking orange flame of a torch positioned on a knoll up ahead. This must be the burial site. He stealthily made his way closer, crouching as he moved forward and doing all he could to seem part of the shadowed land.

  He’d pushed his mount hard to catch up to the three, and had at last been successful some five hours past, tho’ he’d remained far enough behind them that he would not be detected, or suspected. ‘Twas during that time, he began to ponder the best strategy for freeing his wife; killing the priest, who Robert knew from past experience would have been the one responsible for his wife’s chafed cheek; and capturing the apprentice as proof against the uncle.

  Several yards from the base of the rise he spied the horses tethered to a tall standing stone. God be praised! The men had made the first tactic in his plan easy. He went down on his belly and crawled closer to the stone until the men’s horses served to hide him from view. Using some of the rope he’d brought with him, he hobbled the animals’ legs, intermittently soothing and murmuring to each when it snorted or balked.

  Next, he moved in a hunched run around the base of the hillock until he reached the side that was not visible from the underground burial chamber, due to the position of the slab o’er its opening. From his close proximity, he could now hear the raised voice of the priest. He was telling his confederate to unsaddle the horses for the night and take them down to the burn that flowed a quarter-mile away to let them drink and feed on the grass. In spite of all that was at stake, Robert grinned, mentally rubbing his hands together in anticipation of the coming battle.

  Crouching down as low as he could go, he prepared to pounce.

  * * *

  Morgana surreptitiously slid the blade from its leather sheath as she watched the priest help the red-beard awkwardly maneuver himself on all fours through the small opening of the carn. It had been necessary to unbind her wrists in order to get her inside, and the false priest had yet to rebind them. ‘Twas clear this was the best, and only, chance she’d have of escape, and she intended to take it—with zeal. Even if it meant committing a mortal sin, even if it went against all her teachings at the convent, and even if she was not successful and she was killed in spite of her endeavor not to be.

  For this man, this false priest, had led the brigade of bandits who’d attacked her family and had later defiled her mother multiple times, and in front of a bairn of a mere five summers. And now, he intended to defile her as well, before ending her life and leaving her remains to rot in this forgotten tomb of the ancients.

  * * *

  The apprentice heaved himself into a standing position with a grunt, then worked a knot out of his neck with his fingers, grumbling under his breath the entire time. Robert fisted the grass under his hands to keep from rushing the man there and then, but he knew his best chance at a clean capture would be once his quarry was by the restless animals. So, Robert held his breath and waited until the man was halfway to the tree where they’d tethered their beasts before he began a silent crab-walk around the slope toward his prey. When the apprentice was but two paces from the animals, Robert sprang forward, flung the noose around the man’s neck, and yanked him to the ground. As Robert had planned, the rope cut off the man's wind, and his quarry made no more than a puling, strangled sound.

  Robert fell upon him with a right to his jaw, sending the man into a swoon, to keep him still long enough to bind his hands, so that he could loose the noose to allow him breath again. Tho’ he’d like naught more than to slice his gullet clear through, he’d not forgot that the villainous vermin was worth more to him alive than dead, so he suppressed the urge and forced his focus back on the task at hand.

  * * *

  “Your mother learned quick enough,” the false priest said, sliding the rope through his hand and walking on his knees toward her, “ ‘twas best to obey me than to defy me.”

  Morgana gripped the hilt of the blade, hidden in the folds of her gown, in her clammy fist, ready to strike. Her heart raced so, she feared it might seize. In the quiet of the cold, dim tomb, she could hear the whish of her ragged breath as she sucked in, then blew out again.

  “Aye, she learned that lesson early on.” He paused in his motion, dropping his gaze to the rope and continuing in a musing voice, “ ‘Twas a shame, what happened.” He blinked, as if coming out of a dream and focused on Morgana once more. “But, alas, it could not be helped.”

  Morgana sat forward. Somehow, she found the courage to ask, “What mean you? Did you ki— is my mother dead?”

  The false priest’s visage tightened, grew stern. He sat back on his heels, resting his hands and the rope on his thighs. “The foolish whore tried to fight me, and caught her gown on fire. She was burned, scarred.” He let out a hallow laugh. “I thought surely ‘twould douse the flame of my desire for her, but I found it only kindled it higher.”

  But does she live?! Morgana wanted to scream the words, and would have, except the man took up his knee-walk toward her once more and she swallowed them back. Go directly into the groin or neck. The heart or lungs would be good, too, but if she missed or hit bone, it might not lay him low long enough for her to make her escape. S
he sent a grateful thanks to the bloodthirsty ladies she’d met at court who had avidly watched the men on the tourney field and eagerly spoken of all the quick-kill maneuvers a knight might employ in a real battle to the death.

  “If I enjoy you as well as I did your mother, I might just keep you.” The false priest reached out and gripped her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “You’d prefer that, would you not, to burial alive? Give me your wrists.”

  Strike! Morgana straightened, tense, but kept her gaze locked on that of her captor’s. Strike! Her heart raced. Her frame shook. Strike! Fanning her fingers, she clenched tight the hilt once more. Strike now! She lunged forward and swung the blade.

  “Wha—?” The false priest grabbed hold of her wrist and twisted until her numb hand let loose the weapon and it fell to the earthen floor.

  God in heaven! She’d missed.

  “I’ll beat you raw for this!” he said, clamping his hand o’er the bleeding wound in his shoulder.

  “I think not,” came an all-too-welcome and familiar male voice as she watched him leap to the ground behind the false priest. In the same movement, he kicked out, hitting her captor from behind and propelling him face-first into the wall next to her.

  The false priest whirled around and, bellowing, plowed into her husband’s middle with his shoulder, but thankfully Robert’s larger girth kept him firmly on his feet.

  “Hurry! Flee! Now!” Robert said to her as he yanked the priest’s head back by the hair then punched him in the jaw, sending him sprawling onto his arse.

  Morgana rushed to obey. As she skirted the two men to gain the exit, the false priest struggled to his feet, swayed a moment, then barreled forward with the same crude blade in his hand Morgana had used on him moments before, aimed right at Robert’s face.

  “Robert!” she cried out in warning, frozen in place behind her husband.

  Robert grabbed the man’s wrist in an iron fist to deflect the blow, then pressed the blade, still in the false priest’s hand, against the man’s throat.

  Just then, a calloused, beefy palm snaked from behind Morgana and clamped o’er her mouth and nose, impeding her ability to breathe. She clawed and stomped, tried to fight, but could not break the man’s grip.

  “You make this too easy,” Robert said to the false priest through gritted teeth.

  “Aye, you do,” the red-beard said, tossing her away from him onto the cold, stone floor.

  The false priest grinned.

  “Blood of Christ!” Robert gritted out, swinging his head around just as a thud! rent the air.

  Morgana watched in terror, Robert’s head loll, his eyes roll back, and his frame crumple to the floor of the carn.

  “What took you so long?” the false priest said, tucking the dirk in his belt and sliding her husband’s sword from its sheath, then kicking it so that it landed at the red-beard’s feet. While he listened to his confederate’s reply, he lifted the rope he’d dropped earlier and restrained Robert with it, binding his arms against his chest, and his ankles together.

  “He ambushed me and tied me up outside, but he didn’t know of my ability to slip from such bonds by moving my bones from their sockets.” The red-beard let the stone clatter to the floor, then lifted the rope tied ‘round his neck and let it slither through his palm as he hissed, “ ‘Tis clear we’ve been found out, so I say let’s kill them here and now, barricade the entry, and get to that ship that holds our copper and then on to our own holdings without further delay.”

  The false priest’s eyes narrowed on her. “Nay, I’ve got a bit of unfinished business with the mute.” He reached out his hand to the red-beard. “Hand me that...and give me an hour, then, aye, we'll make haste from this hole.”

  Morgana's heart sped. Oh-God-Oh-God.

  The red-beard growled. “Nay! We must leave forthwith!”

  “Aye, and we will. In an hour. The rope.”

  The red-beard grudgingly handed it over, but protested, “We know not how close behind are his men, for 'tis sure there will be more.”

  “I believe he is but one, and that is why we've seen no others yet.”

  “He'd not have undertaken this on his own.”

  “An hour more, or I take the mute with me.”

  “Are you mad? Do you want to hang?”

  As the two men continued to argue, Morgana’s gaze tripped from her captors to her husband. A trickle of blood ran o’er his forehead, across the bridge of his nose, and dripped into the dark red puddle that had formed near his cheek. She waited with breath held and eyes keen until she at last saw a slight rise and fall in his back and shoulders. He lives! Praise be.

  Now. How to save them both. She took a look around. From playing here as a bairn, she knew that there were two other chambers off this one, but none held another opening to the outside. So, her only option was to somehow o’erpower her captors and gain the exit. But how? How?

  In the next moment, the false priest yanked her up with a vicious grip ‘round the tender flesh of her upper arm, whirled, kicked Robert in the side, and said, “Wake up!”, then told his confederate to gather their belongings and wait for him by the horses.

  * * *

  Robert battled his initial instinct to pound his fist into the priest’s face until all that remained was an oozing mass of blood, flesh and broken bone, for daring to touch Morgana in such a manner. Instead, he listened to the other that told him to continue the ruse, which he’d begun moments before when he’d first awakened, that he slumbered still, in hopes that his captors would become careless, and he would then be able to implement the remainder of his original plan.

  He’d been trying to find a way to divide the two so that he could vanquish them one at a time, when the priest had told the apprentice to leave him with Morgana for an hour. Tho’ Robert had nearly come out of his skin, so great had been his thirst to pulverize the lascivious priest, the realization that, yet again, the two men were making this venture easy for him, as well as the fact that the priest would ne’er have a chance to implement his lechery, had served to temper the need.

  From behind his lashes, Robert watched the apprentice, clearly annoyed, but submitting to the priest’s wishes, grumble under his breath and reach for his leather satchel, then trudge toward the false priest’s to do the same with his. He left Robert’s sword where it lay on the ground, either from dull-wittedness or rebellion, Robert knew not which. ‘Twas a tight squeeze, just as it had been for Robert, but the apprentice at last managed to wiggle and worm his way back through the opening of the carn.

  Robert had already managed to slide the hidden dirk from its sheath. Thanks again to the bumbling of which e’er man had tied him, his work had been made simple, for the manner in which he’d been bound had left him access to his weapon. He began surreptitiously sawing at his bonds, but they were proving harder to cut through than he’d expected. Swallowing a growl of frustration, he doubled his effort, hoping against hope that the priest would not see the added movement. He must get free, and before the priest could do his will on Morgana.

  In the next moment, when he heard the distinct sound of cloth ripping, Robert knew he’d not been fast enough. Swinging his gaze to his wife, he was met with the smooth, white flesh of her breast on display and her dainty white hands fighting the angular, yellow-nailed, blue-veined ones to keep from being bound with rope. With a vociferous roar and the crazed furor of a demon, Robert raged openly against his bonds. “Lay so much as a finger on her again, and you’ll beg for the bliss of death before I’m done with you!” he told the priest.

  “Ah, good. You are awake,” the priest answered without looking at him, clearly set on his purpose, and confident in his belief Robert was securely bound and of no real threat to him any longer. “ ‘Twill be much more enjoyable with you as unwilling witness.” Finally managing to capture Morgana’s wrists, he said to her, “I like a good tussle, sweeting...so, pray, continue,” and yanked her forward until her exposed breast was only a mere quarter-inch fro
m his chest.

  Recognizing the gruffness in the priest’s voice for what it was: Lust for flesh, Robert bellowed, “Touch her and die!” just as the last stubborn fragment of rope broke loose and his wife began to sing.

  Morgana’s pure, sweet voice, raised in song, sent spikes of dread through his heart. He caught her gaze. ‘Twas bright. Too bright. If he didn’t get them both out of here now, her mind, already fragile, would surely break.

  But first…he must…he…must…shake…must…shake…this-s-s…leth…argy. Against his will, his lids dropped o’er his eyes and he was transported to a glen, greener than any he’d e’er seen, surrounded by mountains and a wood, and with beams of sunlight and a faery queen’s enchanting song swirling and swirling all about him.

  * * *

  The answer to how she could save herself and her husband had come with a flash of memory, like an answered prayer, and now Morgana fervently hoped the effect of her song inside this underground chamber would work its magic as swiftly upon her captor as it had done the members of the pretend faery court she’d held here as a bairn.

  When her eyes had shifted for at least the hundredth time to her wounded husband a moment past and her gaze had, at last, been snared in the hot liquid silver of his, hope had filled her heart and trilled e’er higher from her throat in joyous sound.

  “Shut...huh….” The priest’s eyelids drooped. He swayed on his feet. “...your gob, w-huh-wench!”

  Ah. ‘Twas working. Praise be to heaven. Zealous now in her pursuit, Morgana lifted her voice louder in song, and, in the next instant, when the priest reached out for her, she found victory, for his eyes closed, his head drooped, and his frame teetered, before collapsing to the floor. Again, she sent a silent prayer of praise to God.

  Galvanized into action, she captured the rope that had fallen in a slithery coil next to the false priest and tied his wrists and his ankles together behind him, as she’d seen done by the sheriff when she was a lass of twelve summers. The official and his men had captured a criminal in the wood and had brought him to hang in the town square near the nunnery.