Beyond Reason

by Avril Borthiry

  The question did not offend, but it shook her fragile emotions nonetheless. Isobel's courses had begun the day after her arrival at Stanford. Indeed, she carried nothing of Robert's except a small, damaged chess-piece.

  “Nay,” she said, at last.

  “There's no doubt of it?”

  “None. I... I believe I reacted to something David mentioned. He was telling me about your wife and child. About how much you loved her. Something he said – the specific words he used – reminded me of Robert and I became...overwhelmed.” Her fingers closed around his. “Elias, why did you not tell me of your loss?”

  A shadow of sadness crossed his face. “Forgive me. I prefer not to speak of it. Now then, I was going to suggest you ride out with me today. There are parts of your estate I'd like to show you. But given these circumstances, it's perhaps better you rest. ”

  “No, truly, I'm fine,” she said, sitting up. “It was merely a moment of weakness. I'd love to explore my estate. In fact, if you have no objection, I should very much like to visit the stone circle you mentioned.”

  “Are you sure you feel well enough?”

  “Certain.”

  He nodded. “So be it. I'll tell David to prepare Archer.”

  “But Archer was your wife's horse.”

  “That doesn't mean he should not be ridden. It'll be good for him. Can you stand? Steady now.” With ease, he lifted her to her feet, one strong arm still cradling her. “Also, my lady, I wondered if you might consider offering me a position as your steward and protector. I feel I have done all I can at Bremner and seek to serve elsewhere.”

  Relief surged through her. “Oh, Elias, yes! Your company – and your protection – would be more than welcome. David is an expert farmer, but his bookkeeping leaves much to be desired.”

  “Thank you. I am your servant.” He kissed her hand, his expression soft. “I haven't forgotten what day it is, either, my lady. I've no doubt the strain of that contributed to this morning's events.”

  Isobel felt her grief tighten its grip. Unbidden, her mind took up a painful flight, and soared over Glendennan like a bird, looking down from a safe height upon the couple as they rode out to the church.

  For that day, Robert and Joanna were to be married.

  Chapter 21

  It seemed to Robert the earth and sky had become one. Muted grey clouds straddled the fells and blended with the cold mist of early morning, softening the rugged horizon into a dubious line. A kiss of pale frost had covered the land during the night and obscured Glendennan with a matching cloak.

  He pulled in a deep breath, locking it in his lungs until they burned. His eyes closed as he exhaled, controlling the speed of expulsion in an effort to quell the sharp edges of his emotions. The exercise served to relax him, somewhat. His heart, however, still ached.

  Unable to sleep, and eager to escape the social atmosphere of Glendennan, he had ridden up to High Tarn while darkness yet lingered. The risky venture drew unheeded protests from Lucas, whose offer to accompany his lord had been flatly refused.

  Robert sought that most elusive of men's desires – peace of mind. He needed some kind of order for his chaotic thoughts. It was a futile quest. Without Isobel, nothing seemed to make sense anymore. He couldn't see beyond the next hour. As he surveyed the cold, grey expanse of the world that lay at his feet, he likened it to his future – solemn and indistinct.

  “Tell me, Angel.” He swept his gaze across the hills. “Tell me what you see.”

  'Tis a sight for God's eyes, Robert.

  “Not without you, Isobel,” he murmured. “'Tis but a sad and empty space without you.”

  A sudden gust of wind tugged at his cloak as if seeking attention. It carried with it the distant chime of the church bell, announcing the daybreak hour.

  It was the dawn of his wedding day.

  The ceremony had been set for mid-afternoon, to be followed by a celebration banquet in the great hall. Robert had settled into an uneasy acceptance of his fate, and he suspected Joanna had done the same. She was to be his wife, and he couldn't blame her for what others had predestined by the frivolous stroke of a pen. The pain he felt had been haphazardly walled up behind a facade of resignation.

  Argyle nuzzled his master's shoulder, halting the solemn reverie.

  “Aye,” Robert stroked the stallion's soft nose. “I know, my friend. It's time to go back.”

  He saw Angmar standing outside her cottage when he rode into the village. Without doubt, he knew she'd been waiting for him. He drew up alongside and pulled Argyle to a halt, frowning at old woman's dishevelled state. Her hair hung, uncombed, to her waist and the dark circles beneath her eyes stood out in contrast to her pale skin. He nodded in greeting. “Good day to you, Angmar.”

  Angmar pulled her plaid shawl tighter around her shoulders. “'Tis the day of your marriage,” she said.

  Robert shifted in the saddle. “Do you deem it necessary to remind me?”

  She shook her head. “There are other things I would say to you.”

  “Then say them.”

  “Firstly, you need not fear for Isobel. She is safe with the knight. He's a good man.”

  Robert laughed – a bitter sound that carried no joy. “Good Christ, woman. Does it give you pleasure to stoke my pain?”

  “That was not my intent,” she replied, her voice sharp “You should take comfort in the knowledge that the lass is protected.”

  “I do, except I should be her protector, not Burrell.” He leaned down, bringing his face closer to hers. “Perhaps you, who seems privy to the whispers of fate, can tell me that which I long to hear. Lie to me if you must, for my heart is weary from despair and would welcome any form of hope.”

  “Nay, I will not lie to you, my lord. Besides, fate is fickle and changes with the wind.” She stepped forward, reached up, and wrapped icy fingers around his. “Although I will tell you this. Tonight, as you celebrate, you'll hear a cry for help in the words of a song. Listen for it and pay it heed, for your swift response to it might alter the direction of your life. One path, and one only, can give you that which you seek. But it will mean a great sacrifice, so be sure you're prepared to pay it.”

  An odd tingle ran over Robert's skin as Angmar stepped back. “You speak in riddles, old witch,” he said. “If you're able to see so much, why can't you tell me which path I should choose?”

  Angmar shrugged. “'Tis not for the likes of me to guide your feet. If it's meant to be, you'll follow the path yourself. Either way, may God go with you.”

  She turned, entered her cottage, and closed the door with a solid bang.

  ~ ~ ~

  Until he'd fallen in love with Isobel, Robert never questioned the obligations of nobility. He questioned them now.

  He stood in the bailey with Joanna at his side, aware of the slight tremble in her hand where it rested in his. He studied his bride for a moment as they waited for the horses that would carry them to the church. The girl's beauty could not be denied.

  Thick ebony hair, shimmering even under the sunless sky, hung loose to her waist. A circlet of gold wept a tear-shaped pearl that rested in the middle of her forehead. She wore a bejewelled dress of pale blue silk that caressed each curve with exquisite grace.

  Yet fear showed on her features, and sympathy for the girl softened Robert's heart. She was, after all, a young, devout virgin, about to marry a man she didn’t know. It occurred to him that had he not fallen in love with Isobel, he would have made a stronger effort to understand his young bride. As it was, Joanna had received little attention from him since her arrival. He sighed as the burden of his guilt shifted with some extra weight. Damn his heart, lost as it was to another.

  The horses arrived, bedecked in the heraldic colours of bride and groom. Robert squeezed Joanna's hand. “Are you ready, my lady?”

  She turned wide eyes to his and gave a slight nod. He helped her onto her petite black mare and then climbed onto Argyle's broad back. With the guests in quiet processi
on behind them, Robert escorted Joanna through the gates.

  As they rode toward the church, a movement pulled his gaze skyward. It was an eagle, soaring overhead, its unmistakable silhouette a dark shape against the clouds. It circled in a wide arc, as if following the group. Its plaintive cry descended to earth before it soared away, at last, on outstretched wings. For some reason, its departure seemed to enhance the agony of Isobel’s absence. Without mercy, Robert's thoughts dragged him back to that final night in the stable – the last time he had seen her.

  Dear God, she had looked so beautiful, so bereft. The defiance in her voice belied the pain and sadness he’d observed in her eyes. He had been faced with an impossible choice and, may God forgive him, how cruel he had been in making it. He prayed his parting words to her had conveyed, in part, the true depth of his love. He would forever regret not touching her that one last time, but he knew it would have been his undoing.

  Robert and Joanna's marriage ceremony took place on the front steps of the small stone church. The crowd stood in hushed respect as Robert declared his vows in a steady, clear voice. He meant them, too. Joanna, as his wife, surely merited his full loyalty and protection. Perhaps, given time, he might grow to love the solemn young woman at his side. At that moment, though, she meant little to him, and no amount of self-condemnation could change the truth of it.

  He held his breath as he pushed a band of fine Welsh gold onto the third finger of Joanna's left hand. He accepted her token of marriage in return, aware of the tremble in her hand and the reluctance in her eyes. When the priest asked them to enter the church for the blessing, Robert obeyed without hesitation.

  The perfect stillness of the church served to calm his torment a little. As he knelt before the altar he felt a subtle measure of peace and allowed a part of his soul to retreat into exhausted surrender. He glanced over at his new wife, who had her head bowed in prayer.

  The blessing over, he stepped outside with Joanna on his arm, and the finality of his marriage slammed like a door in his mind. A nearby flock of crows cawed a raucous greeting while the wind rustled through the ancient yews dotted about the churchyard. In contrast, the people stood silent, waiting for a gesture of affirmation from their lord before raising their voices in cheer.

  With no other option, Robert conceded to his destiny. He turned to Joanna, bent his head, and pressed his lips to hers, feeling her slight flinch at the contact. At once, the solemnity of the ceremony ended with a rowdy cheer and the procession began the trek back to Glendennan.

  Echoes of laughter and celebration bounced off the great walls of the castle. In all the bustle and noise, no one noticed the stranger who stepped out from behind a woodshed and blended easily into the crowd. Sam Gilpin, his face partially obscured by a hood, wore clothing befitting a groom. He joined in with the cheers and the shouts, even slapping the back of a man next to him in a gesture of camaraderie.

  He passed through Glendennan's gates unnoticed and lingered in the background beneath the ramparts. His gaze raked the crowd, narrowing at the sight of Montgomery assisting his new bride down from her horse. Glancing around again, he drew a mental map of the castle, matching it to De Lisle's description.

  The stables lay to his left – a thatched wooden structure that had been built alongside the castle wall. Beyond them was the armoury and the practice grounds. Behind him, the portcullis clanked its descent, sealing Glendennan's walls. No matter. His escape route had already been planned through the little-used north entrance. A small but solid door, it could only be opened from within, and was accessed through the practice grounds. Sam's lips lifted in a satisfied smirk.

  Ye are in fer a good night, Montgomery. Won't be what ye had in mind, though, ye noble piece of shite.

  As he gloated in silence, a sudden familiar sound snared his attention. That of a child, he recognized the excited voice immediately. John. His smile vanished, replaced by a scowl as he peered over the heads of the crowd looking for his son.

  Devil take the l'il bugger. I'll slit 'is throat if I find 'im.

  Unable to see the boy, Sam slunk back into the shadows, gritting his teeth against his anger. He gathered himself, knowing he had to lay low and wait until dark. By then, most folk would be well into their cups. Only then would he strike – strike and run.

  It wouldn't be long now.

  ~ ~ ~

  Belly full, John lingered at the back of the great hall listening to the music, wondering if there might be more excitement to come. So far he'd seen acrobats, jugglers, and a man who ate fire. Tomorrow, he intended to go outside and try some acrobatics of his own. It looked like fun. Perhaps he'd try juggling again too. His earlier effort had not gone well. In his attempt to juggle three figs, one of them had gone astray and landed in a nearby goblet of wine. The owner of the goblet – a large balding man with a red nose and bloodshot eyes – hurled a curse at the boy. Mistress Aggie had tugged on John's ear. “That's enough,” she hissed. “Behave yerself, or 'tis off ta bed with yer.”

  The thought of trying to eat fire didn't appeal to him. He supposed Mistress Aggie wouldn't approve of it either. Growing bored with the music, he wandered into the kitchens, only to be shooed away by the servants. The outside door to the kitchen stood open, allowing fresh air to clear out the heat and smoke from the cooking fires. John paused on the threshold for a moment before stepping into the night.

  His feet, shod in his beloved boots, took him to the stables; one of his favourite haunts. He loved to play in the hay and straw, hiding among it and jumping out to startle the grooms and stable-hands. Tonight, however, the stables were empty of people. Besides, he knew Mistress Aggie would be cross if he got his good clothes dirty.

  The chestnut mare nickered softly at the sight of him. John chewed on his lip and thought of Lady Isobel. She was the kindest lady he had ever known and he missed her. Every day, she'd found time to play with him and he wondered, once again, why she'd left. He thought Lord Montgomery liked her. Now, though, the lord had married someone else. Lady Joanna was prettier, thought John, but not as nice as Lady Isobel. He sighed and reached up to tickle the horse's nose.

  As he did so, he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. Not wishing to be shooed away again, he searched the gloom for a hiding place. A sheaf of hay stood in one corner and, with a soft giggle of mischief, he ducked down behind it. Then he peeked out, watching as the person drew near. Despite the darkness, John could tell the large silhouette was that of a man, and something about him seemed familiar. With a sickening sense of recognition, John held his breath and watched as the man pulled something from his pocket.

  A moment later, the air hissed with the unmistakable sound of a tinder-box strike. The resulting flame hesitated at first, sputtering as it played on the tinder. It flared at last, lifting the shadows from the man's face.

  John clamped a hand over his mouth, stifling a gasp of terror.

  Sam Gilpin stood in the middle of the stables at Glendennan with a grin on his face and a burning piece of tinder in his hand. Every stall in the stable was occupied, many housing more than one horse. Forty of the horses belonged to Glendennan. The other twenty or so belonged to Willoughby's entourage.

  The horse nearest to him was a large bay gelding. It rolled its eyes at the flame and Sam's grin stretched even wider.

  “Too bad, mate,” he whispered. “T'would seem tha's not goin' to 'ave a good night.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Angmar’s strange prediction preyed on Robert's mind all evening. He listened to the words of every song, searching for something – anything – that might fit with what the old woman had said. Yet nothing he heard caused him to pause or wonder. As the evening progressed, hope slid from his grasp. Perhaps the old woman was losing her reason. For sure, he had all but lost his.

  The time to fulfil the obligations of the marital bed edged closer. Strange, he mused, that he wrestled with a sense of betrayal at the thought of bedding Joanna. After all, she was his wife, not Isobel.

&
nbsp; Not Isobel.

  His stomach knotted.

  Acknowledging the opposing sensation of guilt, he turned to his young bride. Joanna’s food lay untouched on her trencher. Her hands, clenched into loose fists, rested atop the table. She gazed out across the sea of faces, yet Robert could tell her sight was turned inward. The tightness around her eyes and mouth further indicated her discomfort. Or was it fear?

  In a gesture intended to placate, Robert placed his hand over hers and leaned toward her. “Please don’t be nervous,” he murmured. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

  In response, her small fist clenched beneath his touch and Robert suppressed a sigh.

  All his attempts to connect with Joanna had been met with a marked lack of enthusiasm. The thought of taking the reluctant girl's virginity did not stir him into dreams of passion.

  As if aware of the situation, the troubadour launched into a bawdy song. Robert could not help but smile to himself at the raunchy descriptions of the wedding night. The crowd, well fed and topped up with drink, responded with shouts of similar vulgarity and laughter.

  Then, from somewhere near the doorway, Robert heard the wailing of a child; a desperate sound that snagged his attention. He looked for the source and saw John struggling in Aggie's drunken grasp as she carried him out of the hall. Odd. The child wasn't prone to tantrums. As he met the boy's gaze, John screamed again.

  ...a cry for help in the words of a song...

  Understanding crept into Robert's mind and sent a chill down his spine.

  Sweet Christ.

  He leapt onto the table, ignoring Joanna's gasp of shock. “Stop,” he shouted, waving both arms. “Everyone, be quiet. Be quiet!”

  The music stumbled to a halt, conversation ceased, and puzzled eyes turned toward Robert

  “ Aggie, wait.” His command halted the cook in her tracks. “Let him speak. Let the boy speak.”