by Terry Spear
“Pray tell, my lady, what did he say?” Gustafson wasn’t amused. He seemed annoyed.
“Well, he said he had been hunting with Lords Tarleton and Farquharson. But when we asked them, they said he was late in coming and missed the boar hunt completely! Which goes to prove my point.”
“Which is?” Lord Comyn asked.
“Why that he accidentally shot Sim, and then was too arrogant to admit it. And then he missed taking down the boar with Tarleton and the other lord. Lord Dunlap was so bound and determined to get the last boar of the hunt—that I had found and Alban was chasing--that Dunlap nearly unseated Alban from his horse. On purpose! The nerve of the man. So I ask you, what kind of a lord acts in such a way?”
“Someone who is attempting to assassinate the king but wounded the servant instead?” Gustafson asked.
Aila felt lightheaded all at once because she hadn’t expected him to come out with those words exactly and so she thought she must have paled and looked as distressed as she felt, which should work in her favor. “Nay. Are…you positive? Why has he no’ been arrested?”
“Someone took the arrow that was used on Sim.”
She didn’t know what to say. Did he know Alban had it? Did he know the part that Alban had taken in all of this?
“That would have proven what? That he had shot the servant, but had naught to do with attempting to kill the king.”
“But you think someone is plotting to kill the king. Why?” Gustafson asked.
What had he heard?
“I know naught of any such plot. Without hesitation, I would have come to you about it, being that you are his loyal steward.”
“Your questioning Lady Umberton, Inghean, and Lord Dunlap have started rumors that someone had attempted to assassinate the king.”
“Lord Dunlap,” she breathed out, figuring he had nothing to do with it, but if she pretended to believe so, maybe she and her sister would be safely taken to shore. But she was afraid that would not be the case. That Gustafson wanted to know exactly what she knew, and who else also had this knowledge. And then he planned to kill each and every one of them. If he planned to kill the king, then anyone else who got in his way would be incidental. In fact, he would probably just say they were all in on the conspiracy.
“Somehow you knew there was more to it than that. How did you know?” Gustafson said.
She thought if they could talk about this long enough, surely someone would come around the treed peninsula and see them and then Gustafson and Comyn couldn’t murder them.
“’Tis as I said. I believe Lord Dunlap should apologize to Sim, but if there is more at stake, then he should pay for his crime, by all means. I shudder to think of what could have happened to me if he realized that I thought he had planned to kill the king.”
Gustafson smiled. “Very well. Lord Comyn was certain someone overheard us speaking in the woods. Then we saw you and Alban coming out of them together, alone. Then you began questioning the ladies about who had seen Sim get shot. You hadna even been there. So how did you learn of it, and why were you really so interested? Then you learned the king was on foot. And the concern grew. Care to change your story?”
Aila didn’t breathe a word. She was afraid Gustafson and Comyn guessed they had eavesdropped, even though they hadn’t actually witnessed them doing so. But now they knew for certain, and it was too late for her and her sister to get out of this dangerous predicament they found themselves in.
“So you tried to kill the king,” Aila finally said. No reason to keep quiet about it now. They looked at Lord Comyn to see if he wouldn’t talk this madman out of what he planned to do, but he only pulled out his dirk and motioned to them to get on with it. He was involved all the way, but she still had hoped he would see reason.
“So you were involved too.” She despised the two of them, but she was scared for her sister for she wouldn’t have had any part in it if Aila hadn’t meddled so.
“Jump overboard, now,” Gustafson said, murder in his black eyes.
Aila reached over and squeezed her sister’s hand, then grabbed for one of the oars. She managed to grasp it before either of the men could react. She swung it at Gustafson’s head and yelled at her sister, “Go.” She struck him as hard as she could manage before he could respond. He cried out an oath before she tossed the oar into the loch, rocking the boat as she scrambled about.
Comyn moved to stick her with the dagger, and Aila screamed as loud as she could, “They are trying to kill us!” She had no hope that anyone would hear her from this far away, but she had to make the effort no matter what.
Then she dove into the water. The shock of the cold water hit her face and hands first, her brat water repellent for a bit. But eventually it would soak up the water.
“What are you doing! Have you both gone mad?” Gustafson shouted, as if to pretend the ladies just jumped overboard because they were foolish. “Let us help you!”
But Comyn was swearing up a storm as he tried to reach the other oar in the water and he was paddling away from her, trying to get to it as the currents moved the boat in the opposite direction.
Both she and Wynda were strong swimmers, but they were so far from any other boats and so far from land, she feared the men would try to hit them with their oars when they realized the women could swim.
“Go back the way we came,” Aila told Wynda.
“We must stay together.”
“Nay. They are coming after us, surely thinking they can kill us and then claim we drowned. If we are together, they can try to kill both of us at the same time. If we split up, we have a better chance of one of us making it.”
Wynda’s eyes filled with tears.
“Go, Wynda. Head for where some of the spectators may be milling about. Some more will be headed for the other side of the loch and could be just on the other side of the peninsula even now. You will surely catch up with some of them coming from that direction. Go!” And then with a heavy heart, Aila swam away from her sister, praying she would make it. Wynda had always been the slower swimmer of the two, and Aila had to give her a better chance at surviving.
Aila paused in the water, watching to see which way Gustafson would row the boat. He was heading toward Wynda. Probably because Wynda was making some headway toward the beginning point of their race. They might have thought Aila was treading water because she couldn’t swim that far. This wouldn’t do at all! She had to give her more of a head-start.
Aila shouted as she moved her legs and arms and treaded the cold water. “Gustafson and Lord Comyn tried to murder the king! Help us! They are trying to drown us!” She still didn’t believe anyone would hear her from this point in the water. But when she saw him turn the boat in her direction, she began to swim toward shore again. Every so often, she’d cast a look back to make sure they were coming after her so that her sister had a chance to reach the other shore.
Even though they were good swimmers, Aila realized she’d never worn this many clothes to swim in. The wet brat was weighing her down too much. As much as she hated removing it and being even colder, she was afraid that unless she did, she’d never make it to shore at all. She fumbled with the brooch pinning it together. And finally managed to unfasten it, kicking her legs, trying to stay afloat.
She heard the boat growing closer, the hull hitting the ripples, the oars splashing.
Without the brat, she could swim a little faster. But her kirtle was nearly as heavy. She could do this, she told herself. She had to do this. She struggled to pull off her kirtle, not wanting to even think about how she would look when she arrived on the shore in just a sopping wet, nearly sheer chemise. But if losing her other garments meant the difference between escaping or death, she had no choice.
She imagined racing her sister across the loch and winning a prize—the only prize she wished to win with all her heart. Alban. In her dreams. But if she were to win, he would be her prize. She imagined him wrapping her in his plaid and holding her close, kissing her,
and embracing her, so glad she had survived this treachery. And the thought of his concern for her brought tears to her eyes.
Which was not good. She had to be strong for her sister. If they caught up to Aila, they’d go after her sister next.
She heard her sister shouting off in the distance, and Aila turned to look, fearing Gustafson had maneuvered his boat around and had headed in her direction again. But he hadn’t. He was too close to Aila now. Much too close.
Was her sister shouting for help for them both then? Or trying to distract the men like Aila had done?
Aila again swam off.
She hoped the men on the shore Wynda was trying to reach were going to her aid. Gustafson couldn’t hope to get away with his plan. She wanted to tell them they should make a run for it while they still could. Not that she wanted them to get away with it. She would have a difficult enough time just reaching the shore, and not dying of a chill, she realized. She wasn’t sure she could fend off these men if they tried to kill her from the boat or if she reached the shore and so did they.
The oars splashed steadily in the water. The boat slapped against the breeze-stirred ripples in the loch. Closer. Too close. And then she turned as Gustafson struck at her with his oar. She dove under the water, toward the boat, not away from it. In so doing, she touched the bottom and swam underneath the hull, until she was on the other side and came up for air. How she wished she could capsize the boat. Especially if the men could not swim.
She clung close to the side as they must have been facing the other way, not believing she could have dived under the boat.
“Do you see her?” Gustafson asked.
“Nay. You must have struck her hard enough that you killed her. Come, let us go after the other one before she makes it to shore and tells what has happened.”
“Nay. Boats are surely headed her way,” Gustafson growled.
“They might still have a long way to go.”
“If we were to reach her in time, they would be too close by then and see what we were up to. ‘Tis too late.”
“So what are we doing now? We must make our escape.”
“I canna believe two women have upset all our planning.” Gustafson sat back down in the boat, and began dipping the oars into the water, only this time the boat headed for the shore.
Which made sense. They couldn’t go back, nor could they go to the other side of the loch where everyone was finishing the boat races. And this was the closest side now to go to. But she couldn’t swim in any other direction either. She wouldn’t have the strength to fight the cold much longer. She hoped anyone else who might be rowing across the loch, not part of the race, would reach her sister quickly and pull her from the water. And somehow they’d get word to send men to save Aila.
10
Alban and his brother rode their horses around the loch to reach the landing point at the finish line for the boats. Their men hadn’t caught up to them yet. But when Alban and Ward heard a woman shouting from one of the peninsulas, he and Ward made their way through the trees and found a soaking wet Lady Wynda.
“God’s wounds.” Ward leapt from his saddle and removed his brat to cover Wynda.
“Aila,” she sobbed, her skin blue. “Find her. Comyn and Gustafson were after her. She went to the east shore.” She motioned in the direction, her words chilled as she tried to get them out. “Save her. Lord Comyn and Gustafson meant to kill us. They meant to kill the king.”
“Stay with the lady,” Alban said. “I will go after Aila.”
He prayed he was not too late. But he remained focused. Find Aila. Save Aila. Kill Comyn and Gustafson.
“Aila!” Alban shouted.
Aila could barely swim toward shore she was so cold now. She couldn’t believe he was truly coming for her. Had the others found her sister? Had she told them where Aila was? She wanted desperately to let Alban know where she was, but she couldn’t shout back, fearful Gustafson would return to finish her off. The boat was getting closer to the beach now. She still had a ways to swim.
She continued to paddle as quietly as she could, willing herself to reach the shore. As long as they didn’t realize she was following them, and as long as they abandoned the boat and then ran off, she could make it.
“Aila!” Alban yelled out again, desperation in his voice.
God, how she wanted to be with him, not just now, but forever. He must be coming from land, not on a boat. She had to reach the shore. To reach him. To warn him.
Alban couldn’t lose Aila even though he knew he could never have her. He couldn’t believe Lord Comyn and Gustafson were involved in the assassination attempt on the king when everything had pointed to Dunlap. Which must have been their plan. He was glad they had not gone to see the king with word that they believed Dunlap had tried to kill him.
“Aila!” Alban shouted. He knew he would alert Gustafson and Comyn that he was coming and he would risk all to save her life. If it meant they would face him and leave her alone, if she was still alive, he was willing to gamble on it.
“Aila!” Alban shouted. He feared the worst. But then, if she was still in the water, still trying to make it to shore, she wouldn’t want to alert the men she was alive.
Then he saw movement in the woods near the water’s edge. Aila? But Aila would have seen him. A boat ground against the shore, and he came through the trees to see the two men beach their boat and begin to get out. Alban whipped his bow up, nocked an arrow, and let it loose, striking Lord Comyn in the leg. He cried out and stumbled off. Alban quickly readied another arrow, but Gustafson ducked into shrubs near the water’s edge and the arrow went into the water.
“Bastard,” Alban ground out. Then he called out, “Aila!”
And then he saw her. She was nearly to shore, barely able to swim. If Gustafson hadn’t run off, he could still grab Aila and use her as a hostage. Alban galloped his horse to the place where she’d made it to land, but she hadn’t even crawled out of the water.
Alban jumped from his horse and dashed into the shallow water. He reached down and pulled Aila out of the loch and into his arms.
“Aila,” he said, holding her tight, kissing the top of her head, feeling her trembling.
“I love you,” she said, her words soft and breathless and shivery. “I won.”
He worried about her state of mind then, but quickly set her down on the beach and crouching next to her, he hurried to pull off his plaid to wrap her in it. “Gustafson is nearby if he hasna left the area. Our men are on their way with the news about the murderous lords.”
She clung to his shirt as if she was afraid he was going to leave her.
“I must remove your chemise as wet as it is. You will be warmer in my plaid without it.” Then he helped her to stand and slipped it over her head. As soon as he had wrapped her in his plaid, Gustafson made a dash for Alban’s horse.
Alban let go of Aila, yanked out his sword, and rushed at Gustafson, who stopped to unsheathe his sword. Shouts in the woods from some of his men verified they’d caught up with Lord Comyn. But for now, Alban’s concentration was on Gustafson.
“You kill me and the king will have your head.” Gustafson couldn’t be serious.
Then again, maybe the king would want to do the honors. “Drop your sword and you can let the king decide your fate.”
But Gustafson slashed at Alban, still wanting his horse, Alban presumed. It would be the only way he could manage to escape. A man on foot would never make it unless he had friends who were waiting somewhere to help him leave. Alban suspected he would, but that they were waiting for him to resolve the issue with the king first. Which hadn’t happened.
It also would mean the king would want to know for certain who was behind Sim’s shooting, unless his steward had the notion he would take the king’s place. It was more than likely some relation of the king who wanted the position and had promised Gustafson more money and power than he already had. Same with Lord Comyn.
Alban slashed hard at Gustafso
n, and was clearly the better swordsman, if for probably no other reason than he practiced at it, had fought in many battles, and generally worked hard for his clan. Gustafson was soft, too busy giving orders and planning assassinations, it seemed.
Every thrust Gustafson made, Alban struck his sword ten times harder. Gustafson swung again, but he didn’t have the edge that Alban had. He swung with all his might, but it was half the strength that Alban had, and with every swing Alban made, Gustafson’s arm and whole body shook with the impact. Still, he hung onto his sword, kept fighting and not giving up. He knew he had to fight to the death or lose his life when the king was through with him.
Alban wouldn’t make it easy on him. The man would pay for his crimes, but he would do it at the king’s hand, not his own. Alban struck at Gustafson so hard, he lost his sword. He dove for it, but Alban planted his foot on it and pointed his sword at the steward’s throat. “Give it up, Gustafson.”
“We will take him,” one of Alban’s men said.
And he realized two of his guardsmen had arrows trained on Gustafson, but they’d been waiting for him to take down the lord himself.
“Aye, my thanks.” Alban only wanted to see to Aila, and as soon as his men took charge of Gustafson, Alban rushed to pull her into his arms. “I love you, Aila, with all my heart.” He shouldn’t have declared his love for her in front all of his men, but he had to. To tell her how he really felt about her, even if they could do nothing about it.
She was shivering, her lips no longer blue though.
“Let me hand her up to you,” one of his men said.
“Aye.” Alban mounted his horse, and his guardsman lifted Aila up to him. With her seated across his lap, wrapped securely in his plaid, he said, “I am returning her to the keep. Take Gustafson and Comyn to the king.”
“Aye,” his men said, one of them handing up her sopping wet chemise, and Alban tucked it in his shirt. Then he rode off to take the lass back to the castle where she could get warm, dry clothes, and dry her hair. Before he could ask her if the men had harmed her in any way, she spoke.