by Jill Barnett
From what Lyall had seen that morning, those were the first words she had spoken to Alastair Gordon since she had cried openly the night before and called him a traitor. This time her words were not spoken in anger or with coldness.
She edged her mount over to Lyall’s side. “Fergus! Come!”
The hound trotted over from where he was sitting quietly with her brothers and he circled and plopped down next to her and her horse, waiting. Lyall looked at the dog in horror.
“I am ready, my lord.”
“The hound will stay.”
Her look was brittle.
“We will be riding hard,” he told her sternly. “I won’t have that hound hold us up.”
She laughed with little humor. “Fergus? I assure you he can keep up, my lord.”
The dog sat there, tongue lolling out, looking at him with a human look no dog should wear. He had been but a lad the last time a dog had looked at him like that. What happened long ago had naught to do with now, with her dog, or even with his choices. Somehow he knew Glenna was going to fight him more than he would like. His hands tightened on the reins. He did not want to bend to her will so soon.
“I do not go without him,” she said again, clearly understanding her power quickly.
Yes…she was the daughter of a king.
He did not speak but gave her a sharp nod and took the lead as they rode off together across the grassy knolls, Fergus loping easily alongside her. He rode without looking back, expecting her to learn to stay up with him, but was aware of the sound of her mount’s hooves. She rode alongside him. His mount took the hillside with vigor; they rode higher and farther, until he reached the very top of the rise.
“Montrose!” she called out. “Wait.”
He swore silently. He knew it. Already the dog was trouble. He reined in and turned, expecting to see the dog lagging behind. The dog was sitting next to him, grinning like a jester who had just performed his best trick. For one moment he wondered if the dog could juggle, too.
But Glenna had turned her mount around to face the half-hidden cottage well below, and the dark and distant figures of two young men left standing there.
They had not moved.
She stood in her stirrups and waved vigorously, looking like the child she must have once been. He was captivated, watching her. So he waited, arm resting on the pommel, giving her as much of a farewell as she needed, and wondering if she even knew she was smiling.
He knew the power of a woman’s smile, he had a mother and sister who also understood a woman’s power over a man, and he reminded himself he was in no position to relinquish anything to a woman. He had a single goal. He had a mission to complete. That was all. That was enough.
When she was done, she settled into the saddle and waited expectantly. The dog barked anxiously, ready to run. Lyall studied Glenna for some sign of female weakness, for the suggestion of tears or the tension of her strong pride, the things that would mask what she was feeling. After a long moment she cast a glance at him under the wide flat brim of her hat, her chin up. He had the insane thought that he would hear the king’s deep and commanding voice spill from her lips, so alike did they wear that same dark and imperious look.
“Come now,” she said mockingly. “For a man in such a hurry, Baron, you certainly dawdle for long, wasted moments.”
His own words thrown back at him.
Before he could speak, she turned her horse and took off down the other side, hound loping coltishly at her side.
Lyall stared at her narrow back and laughed aloud, riding after them, heading eastward, aware the journey ahead of him would be far from dull.
3
The wind carried the salty taste of the sea over the moorlands, and coastal birds with wide wingspans and mournful calls scavenged in spiraling circles in the clear sunshine. All around her spread mound after rolling mound of heather, the same color as the edges of an early morning sunrise. One never understood the gloriousness of a place until you had to leave it. She could never come back here, and perhaps that made her look all around her with different eyes, eyes needing to memorize all she saw, because if the day came when she could not picture this in her mind’s eye, then she would have no past behind her, and all the years she had lived before would be worthless. She would be nothing. She would have nothing…not even a memory.
Fergus romped some distance away from her, his long gangly legs sending dust and pieces of purple heather into the air. He frolicked and barked at it, as if the heather were bees and flies coming to get him. Glenna had to laugh at him, at his silliness, like that of a tomfool she had once watched at a Michelmas fair. Fergus brought her great joy and she felt some sense of peace in that, if for only a moment.
As long as Fergus was there, she was not completely alone in the world.
The last fortnight of summer on the island was always filled with color and sunshine. For those few gay and glorious weeks, the view from the rise above their cottage had always been that of the rich waves of heather upon the rugged land, soft color brightened against the broad blue of the unending skies and her island landscape of huge granite cliffs and sloping rises of dark gray rock.
But this wasn’t her island any longer. That she was leaving now, when she most loved the place, was even more bittersweet. Thoughts of home, and El and Alastair made her feel more lonely. Her mood grew heavy and she wished the storms would come; they were always the first warning that summer was coming to an end. ‘Twould make the leaving easier to swallow. Sadness seemed to grow in her the more they rode eastward, but she did not want to feel anything and stubbornly steeled herself against the weaknesses of her heart and memories that were not hers to own. They belonged to the girl who had brothers.
There was no Gordon blood in her veins and she could not be a sister only because she longed to be, only because she believed the lies told to her for years, or because she longed to go back to yesterday, before one encounter and a few words changed everything and she discovered she was alone in a world full of strangers.
Her skin began to prick and she shifted uneasily in the saddle. Montrose was watching her. His cool blue gaze was not easy to ignore, so she steeled herself to appear as if she were not, deep inside, merely a roiling, boiling cauldron of weakness and doubt.
Al and El were forever grousing about her stubborn pride, claiming it came naturally to her. Pride was her close friend, and gave her strength when the stakes were high.
She considered these stakes high; she refused to let Montrose see any frailty in her.
In truth, she did not know what to think of him, her lark in the cove the day before aside. The vision of him in the sea, a golden sea lion riding under the waves, came unbidden to her mind’s eye, and she felt a strange warmth as her blood sped through her. She had the sudden urge to ride as far away from him as possible.
Who was this man whose tone was often gruff and harsh? When he looked at her, he did so not in anger or disgust, at least not since that moment outside the cottage when she had kicked and bitten him. He was understandably angry then, and angrier still when he was naked in the stable. His body had shaken with it. She had thought he would kill her.
Instead he did worse. He killed the person she thought she was. But since then, he seemed different, as if he understood she’d had her fill of pain, and truthfully, she might have thought his words were gentle had El or Al spoken them. She wondered if that were the truth or only that her judgment was so flawed that she believed it to be the truth. She had no faith in anything any longer since she could not even trust her own judgment.
A quick glance at Montrose told her nothing. He only seemed to want to ride, something she supposed was best. She couldn’t outrun her own thoughts, and could not run and hide on the island. No one seemed to question that she would go willingly to meet her fate in the hands of a powerful, commanding father who knew her naught. Fools.... Her only choice had been clear--to wait until the odds of getting away were in her favor. And she needed
more than the knives she'd hidden. She needed her bow and arrows.
She glanced at him again. The silence had stretched out between them. If she couldn‘t put him in his place, then she wasn’t going to talk to him. Questions drifted through her head. Why had he come now? Fate was a cruel and bitter enemy. What was it about this particular time in her life that she was to be plucked out of the northernmost isles? Why him? Who was Baron Montrose to her father. What kind of man was her father?
A coward, she thought bitterly. Her hands closed tightly over her reins and Skye balked at the bit. Glenna eased up and took a long breath. She knew the tales of the great house of Canmore, merely some of the many stories told to her over the years by Alastair, a fact that made her immediately question the accuracy of what she had been told.
Montrose claimed she was a Canmore. The name was mythic and didn’t seem to fit her. All had heard of the infamous Canmore king, who as a young man came across a maiden in the North Woods, fallen from her horse, injured and unable to walk, frightened and alone.
With her long silver-hair in hand-thick braids that reached her knees, skin like freshly drawn milk and eyes the color of the deepest sky, she was to the king, a Northern light, an angel fallen from Heaven. He carried her to his great white horse and, within the protection of his solid arms, he fearlessly rode without escort into his enemy’s fortress, the winter home of the great North prince, risking everything he was to take her safely home.
Oh, Glenna thought, if that were only true....
Their love was inscribed upon their hearts from the moment they met, the kind of romance and heartache in epic legends. In time, the great Norse Prince knew he would lose his beloved daughter if he did not agree to give her to the young king, who wanted the hand of no other.
So they wed in peace and happiness and joy, their love open and there for all to see. And for a short time, there was no war in the land. No more raids. No more plunder. Most understood that the Norse raids had finally ended with a blood bond treaty and the marriage of two great bloodlines. Yet that peace only opened the door to another war, more insidious, because many in his own country hated the gallant and brave young king, hated him for his fairness and intelligence, while some hated him for his success, for his passion, and others hated him even more for choosing his queen from the North.
Glenna could never think of the story and not wonder at that kind of legendary, epic love. For her lifetime, the king lived in exile after a group of power hungry men had contested his sovereign right to rule and had risen up with the aid of King Henry of England and defeated the young king. His beloved queen had died in childbed, along with the infant.
Glenna's heart stopped. Was she that child? Could it be true? She closed her eyes. The world was full of lies.
A dead infant that in fact was raised as someone else?
How could it be? Was that enchanting, Nordic prince’s daughter truly her mother? She looked as unlike a Nordic royal as a ruby did to a lump of coal. Her black hair and black eyes bespoke nothing of the coloring of the Norse. But, she thought, perhaps they were pure Canmore…
That romantic tale was of people Glenna knew little about. She could not hope for a legendary love. Thieves did not fall in love. Eventually thieves died by a rope to the neck, or bled to death from having their hands chopped off, or rotted in a dank, rat-filled prison. She could steal a gown, a spirited horse, she could steal a fat purse and a spice box—boxes-- but she had no hope of ever stealing a gallant heart.
Her belly growled like a wolf and she pressed her hand to it. She did not want Montrose to hear. ‘Twould be all she needed to make her humiliation complete. This morning, she had been in such a rush to make all the men in her life as miserable as she was, that she’d forgotten to break fast or even to pack some food.
She took a deep breath, willed herself to swallow the air, and then stared out at the southern horizon, where there would be no farms to stop and purchase food, no fisherman’s cottage with herring drying in the sun. Ahead was only the stony wilderness where no man could even scratch the surface with the sharpest spade, and not even the heath could grow through acres of bare, brindled stone, which formed in sheets and boulders, covered only near the streams with some green lichen from the moistness of the water. There was nothing to eat but her own hunger.
Off in the distance, the blue sea blended into the sky so she could not even see where one ended and one began and to the southwest was the distant hump of Bjorn’s Isle, morning mist still surrounding its coastal edges. Then, riding over the arch of a hillside stood a pair of red deer, grazing until they looked up and stood startled and motionless, staring, before loping off to the streams fanning downward through a trail of rocks towards the steep slopes at the sea cliffs.
Her belly called out again and for a brief moment a platter of plump, juicy venison swam before her eyes, surrounded by savory browned onions and turnips.
Over another golden mound that reminded her of freshly baked bread they rode, and her mind filled with dandelion honey dripping from a honey comb and running like liquid amber over that warm bread....
Their direction led down toward a gathering of rocks that looked like plums or roasted chestnuts or perhaps gooseberries and she thought she might die with the need to chew on something other than her lip.
Without a word, Montrose reined and dismounted.
She almost ran over him, and pulled back hard on the reins. Skye reared immediately and only Glenna’s consummate horse skills kept her mounted.
Montrose swore and reached for the reins.
But Glenna pulled Skye away, glaring at him. “Some warning you were going to stop would have been helpful.” She cast him a withering look, then turned back to find Fergus, who came loping down from the hillock, tongue lolling, and he ran past them to toward the stream.
“I am used to traveling alone.”
She supposed that was the closest thing Montrose had for an apology.
“There is water over there for our mounts and your hound.” He came over to her, his hands heading near her waist.
She jerked the reins and pulled back from him. “I’ve ridden horses for as long as I can remember, my lord. I need no help getting down and will do so when I am ready.” She had a purpose; she stayed in the saddle because she could look down at him.
Pointedly silent, he studied her through narrowed eyes that probably longed to chop her head off, or perhaps cut out her tongue. She understood she had made him angry, which was her point, but she wondered why she had the sudden urge to apologize. Bah! She was changing already and becoming someone she didn’t know.
Immediately she sat taller in the saddle and her smile melted into a thin line. “I have questions for you. Who are you to my father?”
He looked at her as if she were a flea he’d plucked from his shirt.
She wished she had fleas…she might eat them.
“Dismount Glenna. “ Was all he said.
“You did not answer my question.”
“The animals need water and to rest. So do you.”
“I can take care of myself. I do not need a man to tell me when to stop, when to dismount, when to water my horse. My bro--Al and El learned that lesson many times. You would do well to learn that.” Her belly tightened again, and began to gurgle and churn, so she closed her eyes briefly, willing her hunger and anger and hurt to go away.
Look how well she had taken care of herself. She was a fool whose pride was more important than remembering to pack some food.
Silent, Montrose did not move. Standing there looking all too powerful dressed in padded leather, heavy hose and his powerful legs in tall books, she had to look away because of what looking at him did to her. Fergus was romping in the stream, barking and splashing water. Her mouth was dry, her head growing light. She sighed heavily and dismounted. Pride be damned, water would fill her grumbling belly. And there was the fact that her pride would be sorely damaged if she swooned into a dead faint in front of him.
>
She did as he asked and took her horse to the stream, but only because that is what she would have done. Montrose followed her. Ignoring him, she pushed back her hat, knelt down and cupped her hand to drink.
“I have a water skin.”
Wiping her mouth, she turned and looked up at him standing over her, all noble baron who was used to telling everyone what to do. “And you are welcome to use it, my lord.” Then she continued to drink from the cool stream until she was full and washed the dust of the land from her face, which felt sticky with sweat and grime, then wiped it dry with the hem of her tunic. She sat back on her heels; she was full of water but still famished, and stared listlessly at the cool clear water skipping over rocks bright with green lichen and pooling below where it reflected blue from the cloudless sky overhead. She wished it were soup.
Pea stock flavored with salt pork.
A river of bean pottage.
Something thick and hearty to fill her gut.
Bread. Oh sweet Lord…she would give her heart away for a loaf of bread.
At that perfect moment her belly betrayed her and growled loudly. Her vision swam and she pressed her fist into it.
Montrose turned, swore under his breath and pulled her to her feet. “You should have told me you needed to stop.”
“I did not need to stop,” she said quietly, stumbling along behind him, before she plopped down bonelessly on a flat rock that was shaped like a pie. “I need to eat.”
He pulled a cloth from his bags knelt down next to her, unfolding the cloth to show her the bread (from God’s ears to her mouth) and a fat wedge of white cheese. “Here, Glenna. Eat.”
No more pride. She took the cloth, ignoring the soft look she saw in his eyes,--so blue they too reflected the sky--and tried not to devour the food whole. "If you had not destroyed my bow and arrows we could have meat."