by June Francis
‘I think not, Jack. But if you feel able to ride pillion on my horse, then I will willingly make this journey to the ap Rowans with you both. Your sister can ride your mount.’
Jack stared at him and then grinned. ‘If you insist, Mackillin. I’ll do what you say.’
‘Oh, I do, laddie. Your sister needs a chaperon as well as a protector.’
‘No, you can’t want to go with us,’ said Cicely, feeling quite breathless at the thought of spending a couple more days in Mackillin’s company. ‘You have to return to Scotland.’
Mackillin smiled in a friendly manner. ‘Aye, I do. But Scotland will have to wait. I cannot have you risking your life by setting out alone when Husthwaite is at large and could have followed you.’
Her eyes widened. ‘You know this for certain?’
‘Aye. His exact whereabouts are unknown to me, but I don’t doubt he will want to try to punish us both in some way for thwarting his plans. So what say you? If you feel you’d rather not have my company, we will spend the night in Bolton Abbey and return to Milburn Manor in the morning.’
Jack glanced at his sister. ‘Well? I say let’s be on our way before it gets dark. We could be in Clitheroe by tomorrow evening, and reach Merebury Manor by noon the following day.’
‘I agree.’ Cicely was relieved that her brother was coming with them. Obviously, even with Jack present, it would be necessary for her to keep her distance from Mackillin. There must be no opportunity for dalliance between them. She could not deny that he had a certain attraction for her. As for his reasoning…A thought occurred to her.
‘What if you’re wrong and Husthwaite has other accomplices, and they try to rescue my kinsman who is held prisoner?’
His eyes narrowed in thought. ‘I deem it highly unlikely. As I said I believe it’s you and I whom he’ll want to punish. I honestly believe Matt’s life is no longer in danger.’ There was silence but for the sound of the wind and the shifting of the horses. ‘Well?’ Mackillin gazed down into Cicely’s dirt-smeared face. ‘Do we go on?’
She nodded.
It was dusk by the time they reached Skipton. They made their way along Sheep Street and into the High Street, at the conjunction of which stood a cross and stocks. Ahead of them lay a castle enclosed by a moat.
‘Who dwells here?’ asked Mackillin.
An exhausted Cicely glanced at him, still scarcely able to believe that they were making this journey together. ‘Lord Clifford. He is for the queen, so is most likely with her host.’
He nodded and thought no more of the matter for he had spotted an inn and pointed it out. Immediately Jack offered to go inside and enquire of two bedchambers. ‘Father’s known in this town and your accent mightn’t go down well here, Mackillin. The Scots are still regarded as enemies in this place and we’re not looking for trouble, are we?’
Mackillin agreed. He dismounted and held up his arms to Cicely. She placed her hands on his shoulders and was instantly aware of the strength of his muscles. Reminded of the kisses they had shared in the snow that day, she knew that she must not behave in any way that could be misconstrued as seductive. She held herself stiffly; as soon as he set her feet on the ground, she moved away from him. Her back was aching and she could not wait to lie down. No doubt he felt the same, having ridden to Knaresborough and back to her home and then on to here.
Fortunately, Jack did not keep them waiting long, but he was frowning when he came over to them. ‘The innkeeper has only one bedchamber available.’
‘Then Cissie must have it. I’ll see to the horses. Take your sister inside, Jack.’
‘But where will you two sleep?’ asked Cicely.
He smiled. ‘We’ll find somewhere.’
Cicely had no choice but to accept what he said. She entered the inn with her brother and saw men drinking ale in an overcrowded tap room. A woman of middle years hurried over to them and introduced herself as the innkeeper’s wife. Cicely vaguely remembered meeting her before. She shook her hand and was soon ushered into a small private parlour.
A fire burned in a wall grate and immediately Cicely went over to it and removed her gloves and held her cold hands out to the blaze.
‘That’s right, Mistress Milburn, you warm yourself, whilst I prepare the bedchamber. I was so sorry to hear about your father. He’ll be sadly missed.’
Cicely thanked her for her commiserations. ‘My stepsister and stepbrother don’t know of his death, so we’re on our way to tell them. We’ve been travelling for hours.’
‘Then you’ll be glad of a rest and to get some hot food down you,’ said the innkeeper’s wife, placing a cushion on a chair.
Jack whispered in Cicely’s ear. ‘I’ll leave you to the good wife’s ministrations and go and see how Mackillin’s getting on with the horses.’
She nodded and watched him leave the room, hoping neither would be long. The woman chattered to her about the weather, but soon left her alone to see to their supper.
Cicely’s mind wandered over the happenings of the day, thinking that it had not turned out at all as she had expected. She pondered over Mackillin’s decision to follow her and Jack and wondered how it would be between his lordship and Diccon if they were to meet at Merebury. Her eyelids drooped and a yawn escaped her and then another. She decided that perhaps it would be best not to worry about such a meeting; sitting down, she soon fell asleep.
Mackillin entered the parlour, carrying their baggage. Seeing Cicely asleep in front of the fire, he felt a peculiar sensation in his chest. She looked so defenceless that he wanted to scoop her up in his arms and sit down with her in his lap and soothe away her anxieties. He knew that he must not carry on thinking in such a way or his resolve to keep her at arm’s length would soon weaken. He had to steel his will and think of something else.
For instance—how could she ever have believed she could stay alone at an inn such as this one and remain inviolate? He placed his bedding in a corner by the fire and then shook her gently awake. Just in time, for there came a knock on the door and the innkeeper’s wife’s shrill voice informed them that she had their supper.
Cicely gazed up at Mackillin from drowsy eyes and smiled. ‘Am I dreaming?’ she asked.
‘Nay, love,’ he said unthinkingly.
She blinked at him and then hurriedly got to her feet as the door opened to reveal not only Jack but the innkeeper’s wife as well. ‘I need to wash my hands and face,’ said Cicely, wondering if she had imagined those words.
‘Is the bedchamber ready for my sister?’ asked Jack.
‘Aye,’ said the woman, gazing up at Mackillin in astonishment as he took the tray from her. ‘I’ll show Mistress Milburn the way.’
Cicely seized hold of her baggage and hurried from the parlour. Had he called her love? If he had done so, then what had he meant by it? Perhaps for a moment he had thought her someone else? Maybe a Scottish lass who waited up north for his return. Such tenderness had filled her with warmth, so it would be best if she told herself that he had forgotten whom he was talking to and the endearment was intended for someone else.
She followed the woman upstairs and along a short, narrow passage with two doors opening off it. One of them was standing ajar and she was shown inside. There was naught of note to admire, but she told the woman the room was extremely fine before dismissing her. Then she unpacked the little she needed to make her toilet. Afterwards, feeling refreshed, she hurried downstairs, intending offering the use of her bedchamber to Mackillin and Jack for their toilet.
Mackillin was sitting in front of the fire, but a frowning Jack sat at the table. ‘What’s the matter?’ enquired Cicely. ‘I was about to ask if either you or Mackillin would like to use my bedchamber to refresh yourselves.’
‘That is kind of you, Mistress Cicely, but we washed in a bucket of water drawn from the well,’ said Mackillin.
‘Oh,’ she said, wondering why he had resorted to calling her Mistress Cicely again.
Jack rose and pulled out a
chair from the table for her. ‘I’d forgotten it’s Lent.’
‘Lent?’ So had she.
Mackillin came over to them and, lifting the jug, he poured ale into three cups. She thanked him and took a drink before picking up her spoon and scrutinising the bowl of food in front of her. She sniffed it, thinking that since her father’s death and being snowed in with Mackillin, she seemed to have lost all sense of time. She dipped the spoon into the concoction in the bowl and swirled it around, peering at the shapes barely visible in the candlelight.
‘Have you tasted it?’ She glanced at her brother and then Mackillin and thought she caught a glint of humour in his eyes and could not resist returning his smile.
‘It’s onion soup,’ said Jack with distaste.
She shook her head. ‘It’s a Lenten stew, so most likely there’s bread, milk, wine and honey as well as onions. The dish we make at home has almonds in it, but I can’t imagine the innkeeper’s wife being able to afford such a luxury.’
Jack sighed. ‘Hopefully, there’s a second course.’
‘Eat up, brother, and stop moaning,’ she teased.
‘It’s all right for you, Cissie, but we men have bigger frames to fill,’ said Jack.
She almost said, You men, Jack? but Mackillin winked at her and so she kept quiet. Suddenly she felt shy of him. Perhaps it was because he was so big and seemed to dwarf the parlour. She kept her eyes lowered and gave her full attention to her meal. A day spent in the fresh air had sharpened her appetite and she ate every morsel of the stew. Fortunately for Jack, they had no sooner finished that course than the innkeeper’s wife appeared with a fish dish. It was followed by the local white crumbly cheese and a crusty loaf, which was served with a flagon of mead—brewed, she guessed, by the monks of Bolton Priory. It was extremely palatable and the ache in Cicely’s back seemed to lessen. After the meal was cleared away, she felt content to sit in front of the fire, sipping another cup of mead. Jack excused himself and said he wouldn’t be long. For some reason she felt compelled to ask Mackillin about his family.
‘Unfortunately I am my mother’s only child,’ he said turning his cup between his hands. ‘I was told she miscarried a couple of times before giving birth to me. My paternal grandmother blamed the miscarriages on her Englishness, saying her blood was weak.’
‘Your poor mother. Surely she deserved sympathy, not condemnation,’ said Cicely, astounded by such maliciousness.
He smiled faintly. ‘My mother could give as good as she got. My grandmother resented her, though, because she was young and lovely, according to my father. I remember her dancing round the hall with me when the old woman died. Father was just as relieved because both women used to berate him if he dared to defend one against the other. There were many quarrels when I was a lad. My stepbrothers would have their say, as well, taking every opportunity to make my life unpleasant. But this was all years ago before I went to live with my English kin for a while.’
‘So you’re half-English. You must have been very unhappy.’
‘Often, but I had to make the best of it. Fortunately my father was in agreement to my spending part of the time at Alnwick. The castle’s a great brooding place, but it was there I learnt to read and speak Latin and French and to improve my swordplay and to dance.’
‘Dance?’
He smiled. ‘I can see that you cannot imagine my dancing.’
She blushed faintly and changed the subject. ‘So is your mother alone in your keep now?’
He shook his head. ‘She has the daughter of an old friend for company, as well as the servants and those men who survived the fight that took the lives of my father and half-brothers. If they had not been killed, I would not be the Mackillin.’
She hesitated before daring to say, ‘So when you return to your Scottish home you’ll take a Scottish wife?’
‘Aye.’
‘Have you a lady in mind?’
He hesitated, but before he could speak hurrying footsteps signalled Jack’s return. At any other time Cicely would have been relieved to have his company so as to ease any constraint between herself and Mackillin, but not at that moment. Perhaps she would never get the opportunity again to have Mackillin’s answer to such an impertinent question.
Seemingly unaware that his arrival might not be welcome, Jack pulled up a chair next to his sister. ‘I was just thinking I’m glad to be going to the ap Rowans. I’ll be able to speak to Owain about my future as a merchant venturer.’ He turned to Mackillin. ‘What will you do about your ship once you settle in Scotland?’
Mackillin yawned. ‘That is something I do not need to think about right now. I deem it’s time for bed if we’re to make an early start in the morning.’
Cicely decided it was a waste of time trying to return to the matter of the identity of Mackillin’s probable bride, so agreed. ‘Where will you two sleep?’
‘Here in the parlour,’ said Jack. ‘No need to worry about us, Cissie.’
She smiled and bid them goodnight and went upstairs to her bedchamber. As she undressed, she thought of what Jack had said about Mackillin’s ship. Despite her father having travelled much, she, herself, had never sailed across the sea and would like to think she’d enjoy the experience. That night she dreamed of being held in Mackillin’s arms as his ship carried them to a far distant shore.
Chapter Seven
Cicely was dreaming that Mackillin was being taken away from her. She clung to him, calling to those who held him prisoner to let him go. Then a knocking began to disturb her dreams and proved so persistent that she tore herself from her sleep and lay there, trying to force her eyes open, wondering about the meaning behind her dream and who it was making such a noise. Then a familiar voice called her name—it was Mackillin, and, within seconds, the events of the previous day came flooding back. She climbed out of bed.
She was stiff, but managed to walk over to the door without much difficulty and open it. She was glad that she had slept in her kirtle. He looked cheerfully wide awake. His hair was damp, causing her to wonder if he had sluiced himself in a water trough. Whatever he had done, he looked good enough to kiss again. She shook her head to try to rid herself of such a notion.
‘Time to get up and be on our way, lass,’ he said. ‘You’ve been dead to the world. I’ve asked the good wife to pack us some bread and smoked fish to eat on the journey.’
‘I’ll be with you soon,’ said Cicely, puzzling over why he should need to pick up his sleeping roll from the floor outside her door.
‘I’ll go and saddle up and see you downstairs as soon as you’re ready. Jack’s in the parlour breaking his fast,’ said Mackillin.
She thanked him absently and closed the door. As she washed and dressed, she wondered if he had slept outside her bedchamber. She felt quite odd, thinking that he might have been only a few feet away from her whilst she slept.
Yet such feelings could not last once she was up and about. The ground was white with frost, but the sun was shining and the road was protected from the cruellest of weather by the surrounding fells. For a while they travelled at a brisk gallop and it was a relief to her when she saw a long-ridged hill in the distance to their right.
Jack pointed it out to Mackillin. ‘That’s Pendle hill. Doesn’t look far, does it, as the crow flies? Clitheroe lies the other side of the hill. I reckon it would be quicker going across country,’ he added.
Mackillin glanced at Cicely, a question in his eyes. ‘It probably is the quickest way, as long as we don’t wander into a bog by mistake,’ she said.
Mackillin’s gaze measured the distance to the distinctively shaped hill. He could see flashes of light reflecting the sun on what he presumed was frozen water on the moor that lay between them and the hill. The terrain reminded him of the untamed expanses of the Border country. ‘Have you crossed that way before, Jack?’ he asked.
He nodded. ‘With Father. If it was not such a clear day and there was a chance of mist, then I would say don’t risk it, but all
we have to do is to keep Pendle hill in our sights.’
‘Then let us not waste any more time,’ said Mackillin with a smile, urging his horse from the road.
Unfortunately the first track they followed petered out and they had to seek another to avoid a mere because the sun had melted its icy surface. Another path was soon found, but at times they had to ride over tussocky wasteland. As the day wore on they occasionally had to backtrack to avoid marshy ground. They paused only briefly to eat some of the bread and fish and drink ale before forging ahead again.
The sun was sinking low in the sky by the time they reached the outlying slopes of Pendle hill. In its shadow the grass was still hoary with frost and in front of them lay an expanse of marshy ground.
Cicely shivered in the freezing air, thinking that the journey so far had taken them much longer than estimated and hoped Mackillin was not vexed with them for suggesting this route.
Her brother must have been thinking the same thing because he apologised to Mackillin. ‘Father made it seem so easy when last I came this way with him.’
‘We’re here now, so let’s not worry,’ said Mackillin, dismounting.
He picked his way to the edge of the marshy area and what he saw there lifted his spirits. ‘We should be able to cross, the ground is still iced over and should be firm enough to take our weight.’
He hurried back to the horses and looked up at Cicely, noticing her face was pinched with cold and that she drooped in the saddle. He marvelled that not a word of complaint had passed her lips. He smiled up at her. ‘We’ll soon find shelter. You stay on the horse.’ He looked up at Jack. ‘You can get down and lead my mount. I’ll go on ahead and test the ground.’
Jack did as ordered and, taking the reins of Mackillin’s horse, followed him. Cicely drew alongside her brother, watching his lordship take out his sword and try the ground with the point of the blade. It appeared to make little impression, so he walked on and kept testing the ground. They followed him and at last they were on safe ground. Ahead lay a wood.