With a low grunt, he hoisted her up and wrapped his arm around her waist again, pulling her close with jarring force. “Aye. Quite fulsome."
“Why, I never!"
“'Tis apparent, but ‘tis also good. Now, sit still, Seerah the witch. For if you insist on jumping from me horse every time your tender feelings are offended, our journey will take twice as long. And, we've a long way to go afore we reach the Highlands."
“A long, silent way to go!"
“Promises, promises,” Tristan muttered.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Seerah tried to turn again, but Tristan's binding hold denied her efforts.
“Cease moving about, or you will soon find yourself lying on the forest floor crushed beneath me!” Tristan warned. His horse, Igneous, snorted, tossing his head, again, as if to agree.
Seerah grew frightfully still.
It was obvious to Tristan that she believed his advice had something to do with his foul-tempered horse. Tristan knew better; if she gazed at him with those beguiling eyes and pouting lips one more time, he'd be hard pressed not to cure her of her tempting innocence before nightfall. Dismissing his lustful thoughts, he said, “You should know, I do na’ trust people who break their word."
“If you are trying to annoy me further, so I'll be thrown from you horse and you can be rid of me ... You best remember, you promised to protect me. And, for you information, I never lie!"
“Oh? You swore never to talk to me again just after we left the inn,” Tristan said, “Yet you have been chattering like a magpie ever since. I can na’ trust your word now."
“Then we're even, for I do na’ trust barbarians!” When Seerah attempted to jab Tristan's ribs again, he nudged his horse with his knees.
The animal nickered anxiously and picked up its pace.
“Good Lord,” Seerah muttered, and clutched Tristan's arm.
Tristan simply grinned to himself with satisfaction.
* * * *
Dropping down on one knee, Ansel, a young Welsh archer, sifted dirt through his fingers and studied the crumbling inn walls. “There be fresh tracks here, Sir Nevil,” he called out, as the shabby-looking army of Norman and Welsh mercenaries approached.
Dressed in tattered hose, belted but threadbare tunics, and shabby furs, the men halted their mounts near the scout.
Sir Nevil was last to approach. The former warlord of Leinster scowled through his open-faced, nasal helmet, which boasted a bronze crest in the shape of a wild boar. Though Nevil was average in size, he cut an impressive figure decked out in full war-gear and Ansel knew firsthand that Nevil's ruthless nature easily made up for his lack of bulk.
“How fresh?” asked Sir Nevil.
A lone ray of sun struck Nevil's hauberk, casting a blinding streak of light in Ansel's direction. He squinted against the gleaming shaft. “An hour, mayhap more. And, there be blood drops, sir."
“Be it Tristan the Barbarian and his primitive band of outcast warriors?” Sir Nevil clenched his shield in his fist.
“It be them. And a lass, judging from the prints leading..."
“Leading where?"
“From that run-down shanty.” Ansel pointed. “'Tis strange. I don't recall seeing it when we passed through here last night. It was this very spot were we lost Tristan's tracks."
“Where you lost his tracks.” Nevil glowered. “You simple-minded fool, they must've been hiding in that broken-down inn. The mist was thick here. I told you to watch carefully for tracks."
Ansel swallowed hard, trying to mask his fear. “That I did, Sir Nevil. The mist was heavy, aye, but the moon was hale and hearty. Quite radiant, I'd say. It gave me the willy nillies, it did. Had there been any tracks to be found, I'd have easily seen them. Eerie it is, if you ask me. The charm you seek is said to be enchanted. Could the lass be a witch?"
The remaining warriors glanced anxiously about as their mounts pranced skittishly in the dirt.
Sir Nevil moved in close to Ansel. “You bumbling idiot. Don't start spouting that nonsense again. If you do, I'll show you something eerie when I slit your throat and mount your head on the end of my spear.” Turning, Nevil addressed the others, “Quickly, search the area."
“Be it charms and witches you search for? Tell us now, Nevil,” one man demanded.
“That's Sir Nevil to you, Bram.” Directing his horse about, Nevil approached the Welsh warrior.
Bram steadied his horse and stood his ground. “Be that as it may, Ansel is right. Aye, the blue moon was full. Even a ramshackle heap the likes of that inn would've been easy to spot. It is indeed, unearthly. I'll have naught to do with witches and the like,” Bram said. His kinsmen nodded their agreement. Some grunted and urged their horses closer to Bram, showing their support.
“You pledged your fealty to me. All of you did.” Nevil shook his shield at them.
“You paid us for our ... fealty. Not nearly enough, by my thinking,” Bram practically growled. “We lost half of our men in an attack that you said would be a simple slaughter. Tristan and his men were outnumbered, aye, but the fates were obviously on their side. Tell us now, Sir Nevil. Be it treasure or witches we hunt?"
“Treasure, of course.” Nevil proclaimed. “This is not a witch-hunt we're on, but a quest for a rare, priceless pendant! Witches had nothing to do with your failure. Tristan and his men are ruthless barbarians. They fight without fear of death while your so-called army quivers at the mere presence of shadows in the forest."
“It is believed by some that the charm of Danann be as powerful as God-almighty Himself,” Ansel said. “Others say it is cursed."
“Shut up, you idiot,” Nevil snarled. “This nonsense you spout is nothing more than myths and legends contrived by the pagan Celts to frighten their enemies. Only a dimwit would believe such tales."
“Powerful as God? Cursed?” Bram cocked his brow at Nevil. “Wicked as the Devil you mean to say. And we'll not be having any part of it. You may challenge the tales and legends of old if you wish, but you'll do it alone. Not for all the coin in Eire would I fight black magic.” Bram reined his horse in the opposite direction, and commanded his men to follow.
“You fools!” Nevil cried.
A lone warrior held his prancing mount back. He was a menacing brute of a man with fire-red hair. Scars and war paint lined his face and torso making him appear even more threatening as he held his spear high and bellowed, “It is you who are the fool.” Granting his mount its head he cried, “The Devil's fool you are, Nevil the Boar!"
“That's Sir Nevil the Wild! The Devil's adversary is who I am. And I'll see you all, including Tristan the Barbarian, rot in Hell!” Nevil shouted.
“Ahem. Sir Nevil?” Ansel timidly stepped forward.
Turning slowly Nevil glowered down at Ansel. “What?"
“Shall w-we search the inn, Sir?"
“Why are you still here? It's you're fault we lost Tristan in the first place. We had them cornered with one man wounded when you started prattling on about ghosts and fairy mist. It was your talk of witches that caused Bram and those cowardly bastards to flee now, as well. You're Welsh like Bram—don't you fear witches?"
“Aye, Sir Nevil. I have a great fear of witches, but I fear you more. And I have nowhere else to go. An outlaw I am, as you well know. Helig and I..."
“Ah yes, Helig. Where is the worthless oaf?” Nevil's beady eyes narrowed.
“By your leave, Sir.” Ansel nodded in Helig's direction.
Turning in his saddle, Nevil studied the hulk of a man who sat staring into space like a dull-witted fool.
Helig was easily a full man larger than most, and his brute strength could be compared to none. With his unruly dark hair and beard, his Norman looks were extremely intimidating, but Nevil knew that Helig was a gentle giant by nature. The mute titan of a man had accidentally killed a nobleman while rescuing Ansel from a fierce and unjust lashing for stealing a piece of rotten fruit.
“I see my quest has indeed been blessed. An oaf an
d an imbecile for an army.” Nevil sneered. “Search the area, quickly, then, we ride."
* * * *
Gairloch Castle
The Northwest Highlands, Scotland
“Sire, sire! They's back! Arrived just a moment ago they did. It's a miracle, I tell you. So help me, I thought never to see them two lovely birds of yours ever again. But they came flyin’ right in the belfry, just as pretty as you please. Never seen the likes of it. Scared me half out a me wits, they did. And I—"
“Cordelia!” bellowed the Highland chief. Rising from the window seat, he said, “Please. Your tongue makes me weary, indeed. Especially when you prattle on so.” He sighed deeply, then strolled across the bedchamber, his leather sandals scrapping softly against the wooden floor. As he neared the door, Cordelia, the scullery maid, stood in the hall trying her very best to look contrite.
“At best, ‘tis most difficult to understand you when you be calm, Cordelia. When you work yourself into a state, ‘tis impossible.” The laird stopped in front of Cordelia and ran his hand through his thick auburn hair. “Now, relax and try again.” He gazed patiently down into Cordelia's upturned, wrinkled face.
Cordelia readjusted her sagging mobcap then graced him with a crooked and virtually toothless grin. “Aye, sire. Y’ love doves. They's back,” she said.
“Homing pigeons."
“Sire?"
“The birds, they be called homing pigeons because they're trained to always return home."
“Oh.” Cordelia nodded, but slowly as if doubting his words. “Well, they's back. Though it sure took ‘em long enough. Seen ‘em with me own eyes, I did. Just appeared from out of nowhere. Why they's—” she faltered. “I'm doin’ it again ain't I, sire?” Cordelia grimaced.
“Aye. You're doing it again, indeed,” the laird said.
Cordelia bowed her head and fumbled with her apron, her gnarled fingers twisting and bunching the worn material.
“Now, tell me, where the devil are me ... love doves?"
When Cordelia glanced up, the laird grinned and winked at her.
“Shame on you. Such a grand tease you are, Sire. Come along and I'll show y’ just where they be.” Turning, she hurried down the hall toward the castle steps. “It'll be easier than tryin’ to tell you, that's for sure. Between your burr'n an’ me blabberin', it's a miracle we understand one another a'tall.” Cordelia cackled, as she reached the lengthy stairwell.
Pausing on the landing, she frowned thoughtfully and shook her head. “Why, I can't even begin to tell you how it troubled me when I first came to be here. Me, in the Highlands o’ Scotland. I never imagined it, that's for certain. But I get on fine, now. Praise be to yer kindness.” Glancing over her shoulder, Cordelia issued a quick, appreciative smile, then started down the steps at a steady pace. “Oh, I do wonder sometimes, about what would'a become of me. And, I shudder to think, I dearly do. On me way to who knows where, I was, when I was thrown in that ship with you. It was a dear lucky day for me, it was, those many years ago. Me and the wee babe, that is. He's been a gift to us all. A right sweet-tempered lad Gareth is, indeed."
Stopping on the last step Cordelia crossed her arms over her chest and scowled up at the laird. “Nary a'tall like that scoundrel, Tristan. A mad cuss he is, that one. No wonder to me why he was on his own. His kin probably cast him off without a thought. And a saint you are to put up with him. What he needs is a good rowdy wife to box is ears now an again. But the way he's always scowlin’ ... Why ‘ee could scare a gel right outta ‘er skin, I say!” Cordelia paused, and shrugged. “I ain't no prize. I know. Most of the gents back home would've forsaken me with out a thought. But not you. A dear kind man you are, indeed. Why who knows what would'a become of Tristan, or any o’ us for that matter, if not for your blessed—"
“Cordelia!” The laird's voice boomed.
Cordelia flinched. “Aye, Sire?"
“The birds?"
“Oh. They're right over there, just like I said.” She pointed across the great hall. “See? They're perched on y’ chair. The two of ‘em, just waiting for y’ as pretty as y’ please."
“Aye.” He nodded. “Thank you, Cordelia. You may take your leave."
“As you wish.” Cordelia curtsied, then turned and headed back up the stairs muttering to herself all the way.
* * * *
The laird sighed with relief, grateful for the silence.
As he approached the chair, the two pigeons cooed softly. He smiled, grateful for their return. “So, you've come back to me."
Picking the birds up, one at a time, he set them on his left shoulder and began stroking their feathered heads. Ever since their arrival, nearly twelve moons earlier, his dreams had become more vivid, and his hopes of remembering his past seemed possible. Shortly after their arrival, he'd even dreamt of them. In the vivid dream, a white haired old woman had called the birds by name and released them into the woods, as if sending them off to accomplish a task. Although he'd never given the dream much thought, it had inspired their names. The thought made him smile.
“Where have you been these many months? I thought never to see you again, but you both look well enough. And, I see you've put on some weight.” He stroked the male bird's round stomach, and smiled warmly at the female. “Lilybet, you have been taking fine care of Marcus, indeed."
“Laird?” a familiar voice rang out.
“Alec?” The laird turned and offered the young warrior a welcoming smile. “Come."
The warrior nodded, then advanced. “A messenger nears, sir."
“From Eire?"
“Nay.” Alec shook his head. “The pennant he bears is quite unusual. It displays a black and red serpent of some kind."
The laird returned the birds to their perch on his chair, and whispered, “Stay you near, for I've missed your company sorely.” Then he addressed Alec, “What do you make of him, Alec?"
“An Anglo-Saxon dandy by the look of him, but he offers no physical threat, if that what you be asking."
“Come. We'll meet him outside the wall.” The laird walked past, and Alec fell into step behind him.
Four more warriors escorted Alec and the laird to the outer bailey wall on horseback. When they halted their mounts outside the wall, on the drawbridge, the keep gate lowered slowly. Alec and the Laird advanced to the end of the bridge.
The approaching messenger wore a short, gold-colored tunic that could be seen clearly, even in the distance. His legs were dressed in green hose. A frilly, starched, muslin collar encircled his neck. The white bay he rode was dressed in matching-colored robes and a hood. Though the messenger was a slip of a man, he held his back straight and proud. He also seemed to take in his surroundings with a calculating eye.
“I bring greetings from Lord Viper,” he said, halting his horse.
“Who?” The laird frowned.
“Lord Viper, of Lochinver Keep—in the North. He requests an audience with you."
“I know naught of any such man. For what purpose does he request an audience with me? And from where does he originate?"
The messenger's bearing wavered slightly and his eyes shifted. “Originate?"
“Aye. He obviously is na’ a highlander by birth. Where does he hail from? Who be his people? And how did he come to acquire lands in this area?"
“It has been rumored that he came to the Highlands from Normandy. I know not else, except that ... my lord, he is interested in forming a favorable alliance with you."
“Why?"
A puzzled expression crossed the messenger's face. “It is not my station to know the details of Lord Viper's wishes. I'm merely his emissary."
“Aye.” The laird rubbed the thick whiskers on chin. “I'm unfamiliar with the emblem you display on you banner. What manner of serpent be it?"
“Why, a viper, Sir."
“Aye, so it is."
“Do you wish to grant or deny the audience, Sir?"
Narrowing his brow, the Laird scrutinized the horizon.
&
nbsp; “Sir? I must have an answer as my swift return is expected."
The Laird glanced out of the corner of his eye at the messenger. “I will grant the audience. We will meet at Beinn-Dearge. Ten armed warriors will escort me. Your lord may bring the same number, but if this be a trick, we will slay him and his men, and me own army will attack his keep."
The messenger nodded in reply.
“I'll expect a reply in a fortnight or less."
“He'll agree to the meet."
“You be certain of this, messenger?"
“I was given strict instructions to agree to your terms, whatever they might be, in order to insure that the meet takes place."
The laird nodded. “We will meet on the rise, then—at dawn, in a fortnight."
“As you wish, Sir.” The messenger bowed his head respectfully, then reined his horse about and withdrew.
After he rode away, Alec said, “I do na’ wish to be insolent, Laird, but...” .
“Speak freely, Alec. You are me second in command during Tristan's absence. What be on your mind?"
“I find this all very peculiar.” Alec frowned as he watched the messenger retreat. “The viper is a demon sign the Norsemen often display. It suggests a hostile force."
“Fin-gael, aye.” The Laird nodded thoughtfully. “Anything else?"
“Aye,” Alec said, nodding eagerly. “The Anglo-Saxon messenger referred to this Viper as lord, an English title. He also said that his lord hails from the French in Normandy. Yet he occupies Highland soil? He also bears an aggressive emblem while he claims that his lord seeks a favorable alliance.” Glancing cautiously about, Alec lowered his voice. “'Tis said by some that Lochinver keep be enchanted. Black magic, I've heard. ‘Tis been reported that an old English knight, known as Sir Nevil, holds close associations there as well."
“Black magic?” The laird rubbed his chin. “'Tis curious, indeed. And what, if anything, do you know of Sir Nevil?"
“He calls himself Sir Nevil the Wild. His war-helmet boasts a bronze crest shaped like a wild boar. The former warlord of Leinster he is. Corrupt he is, as well. He'll do whatever it takes to line his pocket and advance his station. He also associates very closely with the learned class and aristocracy of Eire known as the Fili—mostly poets and keepers of the lore, but some seers and wizards as well."
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