by Speer, Flora
“I grow weary of crisscrossing these borderlands again and again,” Fionna said to Cadwallon, who had taken up his usual position between her and Janet.
“Let us hope and pray this will be the last time,” he responded.
“How long before we reach Wortham?” Janet asked.
“Probably, two weeks,” Cadwallon answered. “Perhaps a little less, if the weather is fine. Longer, if this cursed rain and fog continues. A man, or two men, or even three, riding alone can make a faster journey of it, but with this crowd we move more slowly.” He waved a hand to indicate all the men-at-arms, the servants, and the baggage carts.
“Two weeks?” Janet cried. “You expect me to sit a horse all day, every day for two weeks?”
“Not I,” said Cadwallon. “I’d never dare require such exertion from you. No, my lady, your own beloved king commanded it. Surely, you heard him?” He tried to smother a laugh, but without much success. Of course, Janet noticed his humor.
“You brute!” she exclaimed. “How can you be so unfeeling?”
Shaking her head in bemusement at the way Janet and Cadwallon could never seem to converse for more than a few sentences without getting into an argument, Fionna nudged her horse to move faster, so she could ride ahead of them and avoid having to listen.
Since Janet and Cadwallon were not far behind Royce and Quentin at the front of the column of riders, Fionna soon found herself too near Quentin for comfort.
“They are remarkable, aren’t they?” Quentin said, glancing over his shoulder at the couple. “It’s a strange form of lovemaking.”
Fionna was minded to dispute his conclusion, until she recalled Janet’s dreamy account of Cadwallon kissing her.
“I don’t understand them,” was all she said.
“Nor do I.” Silence fell between them for a time, until Quentin spoke again. “I’ve been thinking about what you said last night. Perhaps I owe you an apology. I can understand how you believed you were doing what was best for me.”
Fionna had just opened her mouth to respond when Janet raised her voice.
“No, never!” Janet exclaimed. “For shame, Cadwallon. How could you even imagine such a thing?” The rest of her complaint was drowned out by Cadwallon’s louder, rumbling tones.
“Do they never stop?” Quentin grumbled.
“Apparently, only when he kisses her,” Fionna said. Seeing Quentin’s eyebrows go up in surprise, she bit her lip to keep herself from laughing. Her gaze met Quentin’s for a moment, until he looked away, his shoulders shaking with supressed mirth.
“Shall I speak to Cadwallon?” he asked. “If you want, I’ll tell him to keep his distance from Janet.”
“Oh, no, please don’t,” she said. “If Cadwallon keeps away, I’ll have to listen to her. Once we can be certain we have outdistanced our brothers, Janet will settle down. She’ll be less difficult then; you’ll see.”
Quentin wished he could be equally sure of Janet’s future behavior. He found her irritating and couldn’t understand her attraction for Cadwallon. Not wanting to argue with Fionna, he closed his mouth firmly on the unflattering comments that sprang to his lips.
He eyed Fionna, who was still riding next to him. After their brief episode of mutual laughter she was ignoring him again. He wondered what she’d say if he told her he was half mad with the frustrated yearning to take her into his arms and make love to her. Quentin had known noble ladies, and a few female spies, who were more beautiful to look upon than Fionna. He had even occasionally encountered a pretty prostitute. But always, as soon as he slaked his lust, the attractions of those females began to dissipate.
Fionna was different from any other women he had known. Having once made love to Fionna, he wanted desperately to do so again. He longed to relive the unfurling sense of joy and freedom he had experienced while possessing her. He could think of a hundred things he’d like to do with her, and the thought of Fionna lying beneath him, her eyes wide with desire, her body softly convulsing around him, made him groan aloud.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, glancing at him.
She must have seen his longing in the look he turned on her, for she frowned, then stared straight ahead, while the cheek he could see blushed bright red.
He’d be completely out of his wits before they reached Wortham Castle. He’d run amok and seize her and carry her off into the forest, so he could be alone with her. He’d lay her down on soft moss and slowly undress her....
He uttered a fearsome curse and set his teeth, warning himself to control his unruly emotions before he caused irreparable damage to the woman he wanted. Reminding himself that he had already caused her irreparable damage, he promised himself an hour with a willing prostitute at the first castle they reached. Then he looked at Fionna’s pure profile and knew he’d not be satisfied with any woman but her.
They didn’t stop at any castles, so Quentin’s resolution wasn’t put to the test. King Alexander’s men were under orders to escort the Norman lords and their people out of Scotland as quickly as possible. Therefore, they camped in the open each evening, rose before the sun every day, and rode until the sky grew too dark for them to see their way at night. They rode through pouring rain and through misty sunshine that soon vanished behind yet more clouds and rain. On some of the higher hills they even rode through snow, a clear warning that winter was closing in.
Janet complained of the punishing pace set by the leader of the king’s men. Fionna only pressed her lips firmly together and kept going. Quentin’s temper grew ever shorter. He was unable to sleep, being kept awake each night by lurid fantasies of Fionna writhing naked in his arms. He longed for a hot bath, a soft bed, and a full night’s rest. No; he’d forgo the sleep he craved, if only he could have Fionna, warm and delicious and willing, beside him under the quilts.
On the third day the lay of the land forced them to turn eastward around a group of mountains that the king’s men insisted were too high to be crossed directly.
“I know this territory,” Fionna said to Quentin. “We are too close to Dungalash. We should have gone west around the mountains.”
“Aye, so we could ha’ done,” said the leader of their Scottish escort, who had heard her remarks. “But goin’ that way will take us two days longer to reach Penrith. For a’ we ken, yer murderous brothers are waitin’ in yon hills, expectin’ us to push straight through.”
“If they are,” Fionna said, “they’ll only be more emboldened to see us nearing their own lands.”
The king’s man shrugged his shoulders, as if her concern was of no importance. But Fionna noticed how Quentin drew his horse aside to speak quietly to Royce, and how Royce’s own men-at-arms thereafter surrounded her, and Janet, more closely than ever, until they were well past Dungalash and heading due south again.
The last of her residual anger against Quentin disappeared after that incident. At the very least, Quentin cared enough to see his charges well protected.
“I wonder where Murdoch and Gillemore are?” Fionna said on the following day. “I was sure they’d attack before we got beyond Dungalash.”
“Perhaps they are elsewhere and missed us,” Royce suggested.
“Or perhaps they saw us and gave up after counting all the armed men with us,” said Cadwallon.
“Not Murdoch,” Fionna declared. “Murdoch never gives up once he decides he wants something. As for Gillemore, he’ll do whatever Murdoch tells him to do.”
“He’ll no’ succeed.” The leader of the king’s men spoke with utter confidence.
“I wish you would not discount what I’ve said,” Fionna told him.
“We don’t discount it,” Quentin assured her. “You know better than anyone else exactly how ruthless your brothers can be. We’ll keep our guard up.”
“They are watching us,” she said with a shudder of apprehension. “Watching and waiting for their chance to attack.”
“If they do attack, we’ll be ready,” Quentin promised.
&n
bsp; But the attack didn’t come. Not a single person challenged them.
After they reached the ancient wall and crossed it even Fionna began to relax a bit. Skirting Carlisle and the Cumbrian hills, they continued southward. King Alexander’s escort left them at Penrith. Fionna and her companions sat upon their mounts, watching the departing Scots ride away.
“It’ll be easier going from here on,” Royce told Fionna. “We’ll use the old Roman road. Only a few more days and we’ll be at Wortham. Fortunately, the weather has turned warmer.”
“Aye,” Cadwallon agreed. “It’s St. Martin’s summer. The warmth and sunshine will last for a short while, but when the fine weather ends, beware. True winter will set in then.”
“Is that a Welsh saying?” Fionna asked, teasing him.
“It’s a well-known fact,” Cadwallon declared. Pulling his mount closer to Fionna, he went on, “I’m concerned about Janet. She doesn’t look well. Sheltered as she was at Abercorn, she can’t be used to this life of constant movement.”
“I’ve noticed, too,” Fionna said. “She’s pale and has dark circles under her eyes, and she hardly touches her food.”
“She has even stopped complaining,” Cadwallon said. “She doesn’t talk much at all. I fear the poor girl is worn out. She needs to rest.”
“You may be right, but we can’t stop,” Fionna said. “King Alexander may imagine we are safe enough to continue without his troops now that we’ve reached Cumbria, but I question whether the distance will halt Murdoch. I know him, Cadwallon; he vowed vengeance, and he’ll find a way to take it.”
“Well, then,” said Cadwallon, “you and I will just have to keep a close watch on Janet. I can’t say I’ll mind looking after her.” He grinned at Fionna and moved aside to wait for Janet to come up to him before assuming his usual position between the two women and directly behind Royce and Quentin.
When they halted at the end of the day, and Royce’s servants were rushing about setting up camp, Janet fell off her horse and into Cadwallon’s arms.
“She’s fainted!” Cadwallon called to Royce. “Can you have your men raise her tent first, so we can offer her a bit of privacy?”
“Janet!” Fionna cried.
The instant her own feet touched the ground Fionna rushed to her sister’s side, to catch Janet’s cold hands and try to rub some warmth into them. Janet remained unconscious, her face pale as ivory, with the dark shadows under her eyes showing purple against her almost colorless skin.
With Royce personally directing his servants it took only a few minutes to prepare the pale blue tent that Janet and Fionna usually shared, and to set up a cot inside it.
“Here’s a quilt,” Quentin said, thrusting a bundle into Fionna’s hands. “She’ll be cold when she wakens. I told the cook to warm some wine for her, too.”
“Thank you.” Fionna’s hands touched his as she took the quilt. Quentin held her fingers briefly before releasing her.
“I’ll get the wine,” he said.
Meanwhile, Cadwallon was hovering close to Janet, alternately talking to her or issuing commands to Fionna and the servants.
“Pull a feather from the quilt, or from her pillow,” Cadwallon advised, “and burn it under her nose. That’s what my mother always did when someone fainted.”
Looking as if he was willing to tear the fabric apart to get at the feathers inside, he grabbed for the quilt that Fionna was unfolding.
But Janet was stirring without benefit of burnt feathers. Fionna spread the quilt over her before going to her knees beside the cot. Janet looked at her and frowned a little. Then Janet’s gaze moved on to Cadwallon’s large form. A tear trickled out of her eye and ran across her cheek.
“I am sorry for the delay,” she whispered.
“Don’t be sorry,” Fionna said, catching Janet’s hand. “Only tell us if you feel ill, or if you have pain somewhere.”
“No.” Janet was looking at Cadwallon, not at Fionna. “I’m just so tired.”
“You see?” Cadwallon glared at Fionna as if Janet’s collapse was all her fault. “I told you she was worn out. Now, Janet, dear girl, don’t you worry about a thing. Fionna and I will take care of you. As for the delay, those cursed Scottish warriors were driving all of us to exhaustion. Royce, along with every man of his troop, will be glad to rest for a day. I think that’s all you need, don’t you, my dear?”
“Sleep,” Janet murmured, sounding as if she was already drifting off.
“You must eat a little first,” Fionna insisted, “and drink some of the wine Quentin is bringing.”
“Here it is,” Quentin said, coming into the tent with a pitcher and a cup. He handed the cup to Fionna and poured some of the wine into it. “Cadwallon, Royce wants to see you at once.”
Cadwallon left, grumbling a bit. Quentin set down the pitcher of wine and followed his friend. At the tent flap he paused to look at Fionna.
“I’ll keep Cadwallon away for a while,” he said. “Otherwise, Janet won’t be able to rest, with him continually asking if she’s asleep, or if she needs anything.”
By the time the evening meal was ready in Royce’s dining tent, Janet had consumed two cups of the wine and had swallowed a bowl of bread soaked in warm broth that the cook sent to her. As soon as Fionna finished undressing her and washing her face and hands, Janet fell into a deep slumber.
“I’ll stay with her now.” Cadwallon reappeared, sticking his head through the tent entrance. “In fact, I’ll stay with her all night if you like. Quentin made me promise not to disturb her. Why don’t you go and eat while the stew is hot?”
“Thank you, Cadwallon.” When she glanced back at him, he was crouched on a low stool beside the cot, holding Janet’s limp hand between both of his.
Chapter 14
In the dining tent, while Fionna consumed a bowl of hearty vegetable stew and chewed on a chunk of bread, Royce reiterated Cadwallon’s assertion that a day of rest would be a relief to all of them.
“In our haste to get beyond the border we have even traveled on Sunday,” Royce said. “We have persisted through rain and fog and even snow. We’ve been wet and cold for more than a week. It’s no wonder Janet fainted. The greater marvel is that all of us aren’t sick.”
“No matter how far into Cumbria we travel,” Fionna warned, “you can be certain Murdoch will follow.”
“If he does, we’ll fight him off,” Royce assured her.
Fionna held her tongue, not wanting to insult Royce’s judgment when he had been so kind to her and her sister. But later, after she left the tent, she spoke more freely to Quentin, who had emerged with her into the cool and foggy night.
“I wish I could make you and Royce understand how stubborn and vicious Murdoch is,” she began. “He decided weeks ago to kill you. Even if someone were to prove to him that, far from benefitting his cause, murdering you would ruin all his hopes of driving the Normans out of Scotland, still he’d remain bent on your death, because he has made up his mind. It may not make sense to you, but that is the way Murdoch thinks. Quentin, please believe me, you are still in serious danger.”
“I do believe you,” Quentin said. “I’ll be on guard, and so will the others.”
“Good. After all we’ve been through, I’d not like to see you dead.” She started for her tent.
“Don’t go.” Quentin caught her hand, pulling her around to face him again. “Cadwallon won’t mind spending a little more time with Janet.”
“I mind it.” She took a deep breath and launched into the delicate subject of her sister’s future prospects. “What does Cadwallon have to offer her?”
“When we meet with King Henry again and make our reports to him, I’m certain Cadwallon will be richly rewarded for the work he has done on this mission,” Quentin said.
“Is Cadwallon depending on King Henry’s generosity in the same way you depended on King Alexander to take Janet and me off your hands?”
“Fionna,” he said with an exasperated sigh, “I
thought we had settled that issue.”
“If Cadwallon is rewarded, as you are so sure he will be, what then?” she demanded. “Will he leave Janet to go off on another dangerous spying mission, in hope of even greater reward the next time?”
“Let Cadwallon answer for himself,” Quentin said. “And let him answer to Janet.”
“Janet is an innocent girl, with no dowry. Now that she has fled out of Murdoch’s keeping, he will refuse to provide one for her.”
“Or for you,” he murmured.
“Or for me,” she admitted with a sigh. The lack of a dowry was a shameful situation for any noblewoman. “But then, from the moment he decided to kill me, Murdoch knew he wasn’t going to have to give up any property for my sake. I’m sure he rejoiced in the knowledge. He always was tightfisted.”
“How old are you?” Quentin asked.
“What?” She tried to make out his features in the evening shadows.
“Answer me.” His voice was clipped and commanding.
“I will be nineteen at Christmastide,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
“How old is Janet?”
“She is not quite seventeen, several years beyond the proper age for marriage, because Murdoch has been saving her for Colum all this time. After being kept at Abercorn for so long, Janet is unused to the real world, which is why she needs an older relative to consider her interests.”
“And you are that relative?”
“I have to be. Murdoch won’t consider anything but his own interests. He doesn’t care if Janet is happy, or if she’s beaten daily by a man who thinks women are barely human.”
“Ah, yes, the elusive Colum. I rather think I’d like to meet that paragon of Scottish manhood.”
“No,” she said in alarm. “You would not enjoy meeting Colum.”
“Oh? Are you afraid he’ll hurt me?”
She heard the laughter in his voice. The sound sent a cold shiver down her spine.
“I am afraid Colum will stab you in the back when you aren’t looking,” she said. “He’d far rather do that than meet any man in honest combat.”