A Gypsy's Thief

by Titania Ladley

  Falcon pressed his fingers to his temples and briefly closed his eyes. “I cannot pick up her thoughts, either, my friend. We must proceed through the tunnels until we find her. Though Lance has reported that the troops have retreated, she could still be in danger…or captured,” he added under his breath.

  “John! Falcon!” Salena rushed into the open cavern where the men had paused to regroup. She held her skirts up off the damp, stone floor as she raced toward them. Her eyes were alight with worry and impatience. The Centaurus lay nestled between her breasts, its stark blue stone gleaming by the torch’s flame, mirroring her eyes to exact perfection.

  Althia trailed up behind Salena, her mouth twisted with distress. “Oh, forgive me, master, forgive me…” She continued to babble and mumble unintelligibly.

  “‘Tis Althia, she has information about Catriona,” Salena supplied as she attempted to catch her breath.

  John immediately turned to his maid. He gripped her upper arms and gently shook her. “Althia, ‘tis all right. Please, please, calm down and relay to us what you fret about.”

  The woman sobbed uncontrollably, unable to get out a single lucid word. Salena offered an explanation.

  “It seems a Scots soldier in the king’s employ obtained entrance to the outer keep before the drawbridge was secured. He happened upon Althia in the courtyard and formed a sort of comradeship with her due to their common nationality. She unwittingly disclosed the fact that Catriona was also a Scot and currently resided here as a temporary guest. Althia was unaware the sentry sought Catriona for crimes of witchcraft against the crown.”

  Althia wailed, her dark head bobbing. “Me heart aches for the lass. Ah, forgive me, sir. Please forgive me. I meant the bonny lady nae harm.”

  “Shh, shh, we shall find her.” John held her in his embrace attempting to soothe her. But his heart ached for Catriona, and his feet longed to run and seek her out.

  “Oh, but nae!” She tore her tearstained face from his shoulder, her hazel eyes wide with worry. “I saw him later, I did. I watched from the upper west wing as he snatched her up outside the caste walls and whisked her away on his giant steed. I’ll be tellin’ ye, Lord,” she said with a shudder, “he did not seem to be harmful when first we spoke. But when I gazed upon his behavior from that window, he seemed to be the epitome of evil. I do not like the looks of this a’tall.”

  “Aye, you may very well be right, Althia. Now tell us what you know of him.” Falcon was already preparing to take flight with his soul-brother.

  “Well, this was no Englishmon, I tell ye. Spoke with the verra same Scots’ brogue as meself and that sweet lass, Miss Catriona. Wore the doublet, helmet and armor of James’ army.” Althia curled her thin upper lip. “Come to think on it now, I liken him to the verra devil!”

  A lance of dread tore through John’s gut as her descriptive words of the perpetrator validated his suspicions. Both Falcon and Salena groaned in unison.

  “Which direction, Althia? Where has he taken her?”

  “Due north, the blackguard. Forced poor Lance to lower the drawbridge before he knocked him unconscious with one swing of his fist. And God almighty, help us. Knowin’ the determination and vengeance of me country’s king, I fear this Duncan fellow has removed Miss Catriona to North Berwick…to her burnin’ death.”

  “Beg pardon, but did you say Duncan?” Falcon inquired, stepping closer.

  Althia nodded briskly, eager to assist in any way she could. “Aye, aye. Duncan McNicol was the mon whom he claimed to be. Of the Highland clan Nicol, that I am certain of now that I think on it—by his plaid. Knew of the bloke before me departure from Edinburgh, but had never met him. Some whispered he spied for King James, and others yet gossiped of stories of seein’ ghostly sightin’s of him here and there followin’ his burnin’ execution nearly a year past. Seemed the mon made a name for hi’self from Highlands to Low as an incorrigible rogue, even durin’ his marriage and his supposed ‘death’ period.”

  “The bloody bastard,” John grumbled, clenching his jaw. “Althia, quickly recount this man to me once again. As descriptively as possible.”

  She drew a deep breath into her ample chest. The tears seemed to have dried now that she saw punishment would not be forthcoming. “Well, the mon is rather tall—nearly as tall as yerself, melord—and thin, with a sharp face structure, beady eyes and slightly crooked nose. His hair is of an auburn shade and cut severe at his jaw. As I said before, he wore the armor, helmet and doublet of a king’s soldier, though his red and gold kilt proved his fealty to the clan of Nicol. He rode out on an enormous dark stallion, one that stood at least eighteen hands high, I’m thinkin’.”

  “I knew it!” John clenched his fists and punched the stone wall.

  Salena reached for his hand and examined his knuckles. “John…nay, do not injure yourself so. She will be found.”

  He yanked his hand from hers. “I saw him that first moment she raced across the meadow and into my life. He sat straight and arrogant upon his steed—and the bloody murdering bastard shot her right in the lung with his own sharpened arrow. He spoke not a word. Just sat back and watched, allowing one of his men to shout orders to the soldiers in his army. He must have thought her dead with his own arrow for he and his second-in-command immediately turned and raced from the group as if his job had been seen to. Well, I say either he is a damn bad shot, or he never intended to bring her back alive to North Berwick for a trial.”

  John paced, his fists clenching. If he could give his own ass a swift kick this very moment, he would. His own words that day haunted him, the words that spoke of him being “Little John of none other than the League of Thieves.”

  You idiot! It was Duncan McNicol whom had initially shot her. Hitting his mark, he had held back, watching as his second-in-command had ordered her to be deluged with more deadly arrows, and then he bid his men to seize her. And like some arrogant fool, you announced to him and all his cohorts who you were.

  Few knew John Lawton of Sedgewick Castle near York, and Little John of Robin Hood’s nomadic band of thieves, were one and the same. But there were no doubt a select few who had found him out and might be persuaded—if the bounty was right—to reveal where one of his nearby homes were located. All Duncan had needed to do was dangle his purse in front of just the right person, and his secret identity and estate position would be known. But John swallowed his self-blame knowing full well he had not planned for her to stay so long, nor had he intended to become so enamored by her.

  He recalled that moment after that passionate first kiss that had given John untold stores of power. “Then he returned and attempted to kill her once again,” John went on, “after I had already healed her first fatal wound. Her very own supposedly dead husband drew back on his longbow and aimed right at his wife’s lovely heart. I caught sight of him burrowing in the trees, waiting like a vulture—though at the time, I did not know his true identity. ‘Twas partly why I invisilated here with her, to remove her to safety and finish healing her far away from this man’s relentless attempts at murder. I thought she would be anonymously safe here. I thought…”

  “Master, I am so verra sorry for the part I played in her abduction. He was so charmin’ at first, so convincin’, I—”

  John saw the tears and patted her on the back. “‘Tis all right, Althia. We will find her, I promise you. Go now and proceed with your household tasks. We ride and will expect a warm, cozy home upon our return. See that the cook is prepared for our foodstuff needs upon our homecoming. And please inform Chadwick his steward duties are to be set aside in favor of household watchman in my absence.”

  Althia nodded low and curtsied as she backed away. “Aye, master. I promise to make yer return one ye’ll be rememberin’ for a lifetime.” She spun and followed the torchlit walls, disappearing around a bend in the tunnel’s path.

  John turned to face Falcon. “Brother, we ride. And if that does not lead me to her very soon, we will invisilate to North Berwick and he
ad them off. Damn! If only I knew where she was at this moment, I could invisilate to that very location at once. I only pray to our gods that this Duncan McNicol does not choose to take her life before attempting to bring her to justice.”

  “I am with you, John. Let us depart at once.” He swung his gaze toward his wife. “Salena, return to the safe chambers and await our return.”

  “Nay! I go with you.”

  Falcon gritted his teeth. “We do not have time to argue. Do as I say.”

  She lifted the Centaurus from her chest. “Falcon, do not be so pigheaded. This gives me immortal life just the same as you and John carry. I will be safe. Besides, you may need me and my body to replenish your powers during your journey.”

  “She is right, my friend,” John said, already starting toward the stairs. “Allow her to travel with us.”

  Falcon sighed, following in John’s path. “As usual, you win, woman. Now let us prepare for battle.”

  But Salena had already done so.

  Together they made their way through the passageways and back to the castle’s great hall. Quickly obtaining the needed supplies and weapons Salena had already gathered, the trio consisting of two powerful sorcerers and one woman, raced to the stables and prepared their mounts for the long, hard ride into the bitter cold of Scotland.

  Chapter Seven

  She did not know how long the journey had taken thus far. They had ridden directly into the oncoming storm cloud. Blustery winds carried with it the heavy flakes of a near-blizzard. The snow deepened, and yet Duncan forced the Friesian through the drifts, onward toward Scotland and her execution. Catriona had long since lost feeling in her feet and hands, which Duncan had opted to bind following her many efforts to bolt from his mount. She groaned inwardly, attempting to muffle her discomfort. Nay, she did not wish to give the bastard the satisfaction of witnessing her pain and distress.

  The day’s inclement weather gave way to the still of dusk, and in turn, dusk to the dead of night. Catriona stared at the trudging rhythm of the hooves as the steed continued his nonstop journey. How grateful she was that she had not taken time to remove her long tresses from inside her cloak after donning it in the cave. Her hair could have easily gotten entangled in the horse’s legs as Duncan urged him on…and mayhap have every strand ripped from her scalp by now. Or she could have been trampled and dead this very moment!

  She tried to put the frightening thoughts from her mind, to keep her head clear so she could plan a possible escape. But the muffled drone of the hoofbeats trudging through the deep snow reverberated in her ears. Her temples ached due to the prone position Duncan had strung her in, tossed across his lap like a sack of dead prey. Blood pounded incessantly in her brain while white stars burst before her vision. The pommel of the saddle poked her side time and time again as the stallion rocked and lurched in his lumbered flight.

  Tears of humiliation and anger filled her eyes. So she focused on the one saving grace she had, the warmth of the horse’s hide against her front side. Forcing the tears to dry, she thought of John. She longed to be in his arms again, to watch the passion build in his liquid-blue eyes. Her heart ached for him, yearned to know if he had come after her or simply shrugged his shoulders at her sudden escape. Did he even know Duncan and his sentries had been the ones Lance had announced as lurking outside the keep? Nay, not unless the men Duncan had left behind had been detained and questioned by John and the few men John had remaining on his grounds. Duncan’s small army had not come with them, but she prayed they had gone on and left Sedgewick Castle unscathed. Oh, how she hoped Duncan had not furthered his revenge by ordering undue mayhem upon John’s household and staff!

  Stop it, Catriona, just stop it now! She would drive herself to daftness if she continued to wish John had come after her, or to worry over what deaths she may have caused. Instead, she forced herself to think of something soothing. Her thoughts drifted to his home, its comfort and stately beauty.

  But she did not think of it for long. The horse suddenly shifted, nearly dumping her from its high back. Challenged now, the mount was jostled to the side in an attempt to avoid the abrupt change of terrain. The land rose from snow-blanketed rolling hills into deep gorges and patches of rocky crags jutting up at random intervals in the vast space ahead. If the horse jolted one more time, Catriona feared she would either break her neck or become incontinent of her fluid wastes. Her lower abdomen ached for relief. She tightened her body attempting to hold on, but she worried the pressure against her stomach may cause her to lose control. Basic animal needs plagued her, the hunger for food and water, the drive to seek warmth, comfort and sleep—to simply survive. She licked her parched lips, longing for a flagon of cool water and a single jerky of beef. But still, Duncan pushed on heedless to her discomfort.

  She had since given up on pleading with him to, at the very least, provide her basic comforts. Instead she thought to use logic, firmness and manipulation. “Halt this horse at once, Duncan.”

  He yanked upward on the hood of her cape. “Ah, the witch speaks once again—but not for long. Now silence, I say. I’ll be stoppin’ when I’ve a mind to do so, and not one minute before that, ye hear?”

  “For God’s sake, ye bastard,” she rasped, fighting for breath due to the choking garment, “I need to…relieve meself.”

  He snorted. “And who would be keepin’ ye from doin’ so?”

  “So ye’d be havin’ me to wet yer precious steed? Fine. Then I’ll be stinkin’ the horse’s hide, along with yer own bloody garments.”

  “Nae!” Duncan stiffened and released the cape. “Now that ye be puttin’ it that way…”

  He guided the stallion toward an overhang jutting from one wall of the gorge. The ground appeared rocky and dry beneath, void of the snow that blanketed the remainder of the earth. Dismounting just outside its perimeter, Duncan dragged her from the horse’s back and set her in the snow. Her ankles were so very sore, she almost welcomed the bite of the cold against her lower legs. It took a long moment for the blood to move through her numb body, but bless the dead spirits, it felt like heaven to be on solid, unmoving ground again!

  “Well?” By the light of the moon, she could see his narrowed eyes, the deadly impatience.

  “Well?” she echoed, holding up her arms. “Are ye daft? By a witch’s brew—”

  “Do not speak of witches, I tell ye!” His lanky body trembled while his voice reverberated through the glen. The odor of his rank breath blasted in her face and made her want to retch.

  She leaned back, expecting a slap that did not come. “And I ask ye, how in the bloody hell do ye expect me to take care of me business without ye takin’ these farthin’ ties off me wrists and ankles first?”

  He paused, his gaze sliding downward. “Eh, Christ,” he sighed in moody resignation. “Hell, as long as we’re stopped and ye’re untied, we might as well make camp here.” Duncan unfastened the knots as he spoke, his tone grumpy and somewhat wary. “But I warn ye, Catriona, do not give me any reason to draw me dirk and see it settled between yer breasts.”

  Nay, she was no fool. John was not here to heal her wounds and save her life. “Ye can bet I’ll be heedin’ yer advice, blackguard, for I wish to live—and I will, at that.” Despite the conviction in her voice, fear ate away at her stomach.

  “Aye,” he said with a snicker. “Ye’ll live all right…up ‘til I secure ye to yer witch’s stake in North Berwick and light the fire beneath ye. Under the king’s approvin’ stare, ye see.”

  “We’ll be seein’ about that, dear husband.” Flexing her stiff hands and arms, she spun on her heels and, with a wobbly gait, made her way to a nearby bush. Attempting escape crossed her mind, but Duncan followed, standing guard as she relieved herself. And while the thought of his vile stare upon her flesh made her skin crawl, she was beyond caring. Despite the biting cold that nipped at her rear, the respite that flooded her body and her abdomen made her grateful he had given her this small reprieve. Perhaps it would be her
last?

  As she trudged back to the snow-free, protective overhang, curiosity nagged at her. It wended its way into a plan…

  “In the months followin’ yer ‘death’, why did ye wait so long to come after me, Duncan? Why did ye not just haul me in durin’ our marriage when we cohabited together?”

  He pulled the saddle from the horse’s back and set it in the dry area beneath the jutting rock designated as their campsite. As he spoke, she followed him around a small cluster of trees set near the rocky space, assisting in the gathering of kindling. Catriona longed for the heat of a fire enough to join forces with him in this task.

  “Didn’t we already go through this when I found ye at the bloke’s castle?”

  She sighed. “So we did. But would ye care to enlighten me once again? I find it all so verra astonishin’—not to mention maddenin’—that ye pulled it off,” she added in an attempt to feed his ego.

  He roared with heinous laughter and took the bait. “Verra well, wench. Three verra good reasons come to mind,” he said conversationally as he bent to pluck up several small twigs and broken logs. “First, I needed to gain access to yer Gypsy village without bein’ seen as an outsider or suspected of anythin’ but a mon smitten with one of their own. ‘Twas imperative to weedin’ out the wickedness within yer band of witches. See, I had to do this to distinguish between the innocent folk and those deservin’ to burn for their crimes—not that I gave a fuckin’ hell about the innocent. But the king wished to go about it methodically so as not to spur an uprisin’ from the Scots. ‘Course, I’m sure ye’ll be askin’ me, ‘twould have been much faster and easier to just burn the whole filthy place down, wouldn’t it?”

  Catriona gritted her teeth. She leaned down and spied a clump of dried sticks behind a small boulder set between the edge of their dry camp area and the trees. “So, to be gettin’ in the good graces of all of me people, ye wooed and married me, wastin’ away a naïve maid’s virginity with yer deceitful façade.”