My Something Wonderful

by Jill Barnett

  "I imagine that meat would be my liver roasting on a spit."

  He was not wrong.

  Sitting crosswise, she watched him as she ate. Fergus was wet and sloppy and trotted back and forth between them, then shook himself all over a scowling Montrose. Glenna looked away to hide her laughter. The dog settled beside her and she gave him a piece of cheese.

  “You reward him for his behavior?” Montrose was refilling his skin, squatting down at the water’s edge, his shoulders wide enough to block her view.

  “I feed him. He is hungry, too. Would you have me starve the animals?”

  He merely shook his head at her and went on as he had been. His light hair hung to his shoulders and was beginning to curl at the ends. She noticed he did not wear his gold signet ring on his tanned hand. She had tried the ring on as she rode home from the cove yesterday and it was heavy and big. Two of her small fingers could have almost fit into the ring.

  He stood with the ease of a lion and she concentrated on her food and gave Fergus more cheese, then watched him from the corner of her eye. He took an apple from his pouch and sat down on a rock near her and used a small knife to cut off a piece, then paused and handed it to her.

  She glanced down at the food in her lap and realized she and her dog had eaten over half of it. He must be hungry, too, she thought. A warm flush of shame surprised her, so she concentrated on folding up the cloth.

  “Glenna.”

  She looked up sharply. Her name on his lips sounded oddly foreign and strange. Not like the sour notes of a horn or a lute, but low and it was almost as if she felt his voice all the way to her toes.

  Before her was his outstretched hand, his thumb pressed on his knife and holding the apple slice toward her. “Take it,” he said.

  She did, then held out the cloth to him with a quiet, “Thank you.”

  “You finish it.”

  “Nay. I’ve had my fill.” She leaned forward and set the cloth of food on his knees. Leaning back on her elbows, she stretched out, crossed her feet at the ankles and popped the wedge of apple in her mouth and began talking whilst she chewed. “You eat. The truth is, Montrose, I don’t need you swooning halfway to wherever it is we are headed. You are huge and I don’t believe I could lift you. Why I believe merely your hard head alone would be enough to break my poor, wee back.” She paused, then added pointedly, “My lord.”

  He laughed loud and long and hearty and something warm ran through her at the sound. Amusement changed his face, brightened a kind and sweet gleam in his blue eyes and revealed the sudden dimples in his hard cheeks. She found herself smiling back at him.

  Montrose was a beautiful man. She had not forgotten the image of him by the sea, the one that was burned into her memory only to return unbidden and plague her too often for her own comfort. That was merely yesterday?

  Perhaps he dominated her thoughts because he was only something new and different. Of late, her life had been mundane and uneventful, having spent most of the late spring and summer on the mainland, where they stolen their fill and had taken more than enough to trade for a long time.

  His profile was strong, his nose long and noble, but she saw now as he laughed, that his mouth was wide, his teeth all there, white as the sun-bleached shells on the beach and perfectly aligned, not gaping like fence posts or crossed all over each other like a stack of firewood.

  There had been a time when she’d had to pull one of Alastair’s teeth after it festered, and last year Elgin lost a front tooth in a hard fall from training a horse. Her own teeth were crooked on the bottom, too close together and food often caught in them. She wondered now if there was bread or cheese stuck in them and quickly stopped smiling.

  “You asked who I am to your father. You said you had questions.” His voice was quiet, kinder, and she thought they might have reached a new kind of truce. He chewed on a morsel of cheese he had wrapped inside some bread.

  Her mind raced. She might need to change tactic. Test the waters so to speak. She needed to find the way to gain his trust. When the time and place came for her to run, she would be best served if he was caught completely unaware. “Yes. I asked because I do not know you or know of you, and here we are together.” She sat up and leaned forward. “You claim you have a duty to the king.” She paused. “It would give me some comfort to know what I am facing.“

  He finished the apple and sheathed the knife away before he spoke. “My father fought with yours, they were close friends, but he is dead.” The look in his eyes went suddenly distant. “Our family has long been sworn to yours by oath and by blood. My mother, through her own stepmother, was a distant cousin to your father, as was my wife. “

  “Your wife is my cousin?”

  “Was,” he said pointedly. “She’s dead.” His flat words carried not a lick of emotion and he casually tossed Fergus a crust of bread. He did not look at her, but seemed elsewhere.

  There was more there he could not hide, even by not looking at her. What would be in his eyes if she were to look into them now? She wondered if Montrose and his wife had a great and legendary love as did her mother and father. Was his coolness hiding a deep loss? Certainly ‘twould explain why he was silent and gruff--she paused in thought--not that any of that mattered to her. Wounded or not, the man’s heart--if he had one--was none of her concern. “So it is for your family’s honor and deep ties to mine that you come to the very ends of the earth to bring the king’s lost daughter home,” she said curtly, using his own words. “Wherever home is. Tell me where my home is when my father happens to be a king who has been exiled for seventeen years?”

  “There are many royal holdings,” he said.

  “And you Baron Montrose. Do you have many holdings?”

  “Castle Rossie, home to the barony, is on the River Esk.”

  “Is that where you are taking me?”

  “Nay.” His voice was gruff again.

  She waited, but he didn’t elaborate. “Where then?” she asked finally.

  “To a safe place,” was all the lunkheaded oaf would say. He started to eat the last bit of cheese, but looked down at Fergus, who had slowly slithered closer to him and away from her. But then she had no food…the traitor.

  Montrose eyed Fergus for a moment, then tossed him the cheese. He stood. “Come. The horses are rested and I need us to be in Steering before the tide can delay us for a day.

  Steering. God’s bones! She said nothing but closed her eyes and followed him, trusting she could think of something to save her before they arrived there.

  They rode on the beginnings of a rough road that started from the standing stones near Callenish, and by late in the day they came near the outer rim of the only coastal hamlet on southern ends of the isle, where they passed by some crofters stacking cut squares of dried peat into carts for the coming winter months, and where the air smelled of fresh soil and firesmoke. Glenna knew the road went through the center of Steering, and wound directly through the traveling market which was there for a sennight in late summer. If she were fortunate, the market would already have packed up and be gone until next year.

  The closer they came, the more her hands began to turn clammy and she grew uneasy. Luck was not with her. She could see the colorful tents of the summer market, their bright flags waving in the sea wind. Sweat began to drip from her brow. Her hands tightened on the reins and Skye side-stepped. She looked down at her dog. He was as much of a liability as she was.

  “Fergus. Heed!” she whispered harshly, panic racing through her. She pulled her hat down lower, then edged her horse to the left side of Montrose, hoping his size and horse would shield her. She should have cut her hair off and ridden hatless. She should have found a way to get Montrose to ride around the village. She should have, should have, should have…

  He was a baron, and one who would not pass unnoticed through a village on the mainland, let alone such a nobleman on remote island village. His presence demanded attention, this man whose fat purse would appeal greatl
y to every single one of the vendors. Sneaking past them? Ha! ‘Twas like trying to hide the sun.

  They were but a short distance from the market stalls. Her heart sped. She looked in the opposite direction and kept Skye even with his great black horse, and then the first call came. “My lord!” said the ironmonger. "Lanterns and candleholders. Kettles and pots! Only the finest wares!”

  “Fresh pies, my lord!”

  “Wool from Flanders!”

  “Spices, my lord!” The familiar voice was loud as a fishwife.

  Oh no… Glenna closed her eyes.

  “Fresh hare and marten furs!”

  A moment later a horrific shriek made Glenna wince and hunch down.

  “You!“ The spice merchant’s wife was looking at her and she screamed again, grabbing and shaking her husband’s arm. “’Tis him! Look! The thieving bugger! There he is! Stop him!” The woman moved from the stall faster than Glenna thought possible. Leaning low, Glenna kicked her heels into Skye and took off. She did not look back, but from the corner of her eye, she could see the barest bit of Fergus’s head; he was staying with her, right at her side.

  “Thief! Thief! Thief!” came the incessant shrieking.

  Montrose’s cursing sounded like a battle cry and echoed from behind her.

  Her heart pounded in cadence with Skye’s hooves. From over her shoulder she saw his horse rear, and a moment later he was thundering after her, his face frighteningly intense.

  A sudden cacophony of voices was shouting “Stop! Thief!” The market was utter chaos, as a motley contingent of merchants pursued her, brandishing counting sticks and long knives, brands and candle snuffers, and the spice wife was leading them all, running after her and waving a hatchet. Villagers followed and the crowd grew.

  ‘Twas common practice to cut off the hand of a thief. And horse thieves had been hung from the nearest tree. Island law was unto itself, with no resident lord to oversee, and few questions were asked. Not that she had any answers.

  Chills ran down Glenna’s spine. All were still after her.

  Ahead of her, where the road narrowed next to a smithy, a drover struggled with a lumbering hay cart, the cart horse balking.

  Think fast.

  Montrose was closing in.

  “Stay with me Fergus!” She snapped her fingers at him and he barked. She smiled. “Good dog.”

  The cart was stopped now, blocking most of the path. She did not slow, but sped past so close her leg brushed the cart.

  As she passed the drayage horse, she snapped her fingers and Fergus barked at her command, spooking the cart horse and sending it rearing into air. Fergus loped safely past.

  More of Montrose’s curses filled the air as the cart spilled over with a loud crack and blocked his path. Hay went everywhere, and the noise suddenly became like a battlefield.

  In the chaos, a spark from the smithy’s fire caught the hay. Smoke billowed upward. There was a shout—a warning of fire—then a heartbeat later, the whole thing flamed up like a bonfire on solstice.

  Ahead of her were the long docks and the end of the road. Wharvesmen were unloading crates from a ship onto a cart and others were rolling barrels of pickled fish down the plankway up to the wharf.

  There was no way she could keep riding. At a haphazard row of stone cottages, she went left and past a back lane near the cooper, flanked with huge empty ale barrels, and sped across a stone path that turned and led down to the docks.

  In the distance behind her, the noise and shouts were fading, so she slowed Skye to a walk and easily doubled back around to the lane, where ahead of her, like an answer to a paternoster, stood the open doors of the stable behind a dockside tavern. She rode straight inside and dismounted before her horse had barely halted. Quickly shoving the bay and Fergus in a stall together, she muttered her thanks and ran back to close and lock down the stable doors, leaning against them, her heart pounding in her ears.

  Now what?

  * * *

  Hay flew everywhere, a cloud of flying straw, and as it settled, Lyall saw the hayrack and horse blocked the whole road. Swearing, he had no choice but to rein in. Beyond the cart he could see Glenna, bent low over her horse, glancing back over her shoulder and riding as if the hounds of hell were after her, her own hellhound, all legs and fur and tail, at her side.

  The colorful group of angry merchants was coming fast toward him, shouting en masse, weapons raised, a mob of curious villagers trailing at their heels. He knew they were not after him. To keep her safe, he had no choice but to keep them away from her. Lyall turned his mount, raised in his stirrups and took a stand, pulling the sword from its sheath. It felt strangely odd and unfamiliar in his hand.

  A sword was a sword, he told himself and instinct overtook him. He shouted a battle cry, “A Robertson! “ Realized what he had said and wanted to swallow his words. This was not a battle. He cursed himself for an idiot and brandishing the sword he cried out. “Halt! All of you! Cease!”

  The mob stopped immediately, eyes wide, murmuring. A few of the merchants taking up the rear took one look at his raised sword and turned and ran. A merchant in the forefront, the ironmonger, looked uneasy, before his eyes grew suddenly wide and he dropped his fire iron and frantically began to point. “My lord!”

  Someone shouted, “Fire!”

  “Behind you!”

  There was a loud whoosh! A blast of heat hit him in the back, and his horse reared. He was suddenly falling through the air--intensely hot air--and bright flames flared all around him. The strong and sudden smell of smoke filled his nose and lungs, and he hit the ground hard, landing flat on his back. His head shot with jabs of sharp pain. Impact sent the air from his chest. Word would not come; they were lodged in his throat. He could not speak or move, could only stare upward, rendered frozen on the ground, the world spinning around him in images as foggy as if he had drunk too much wine.

  Time too moved slowly, too, and the edges of his sight turned white and began to fade. He could not breathe and pain slithered in waves down through his whole body. His sword in his hand was heavy and warm and the metal was growing hotter and hotter. It was burning his hand. Why could he only lay there?

  Burning ash swirled into his line of vision. He blinked his eyes. Red fire and flames licked all around him. Like before. So much like before… The air was burning, scorching and sweltering hot. Almost as if he were being cooked alive.

  No! No! his mind screamed. He was coming back to his own hell. Something burned his eyes and he almost cried out, gasping for breath and he felt his lungs finally fill, but the air was choked with smoke. “Malcolm,” he murmured as his brother’s face swam before him. Then blackness descended, and he saw and heard nothing more.

  4

  Fifteen years earlier

  Lyall was barely ten that day when he sought escape from the dark moods of home and fell asleep in the deep woods, cradled against the thick, sinewy trunk and sprawling roots of an ancient river tree. Between those roots was his favorite fishing perch and next to an outcrop of flat rocks where a narrow, clear and swift running section of the River Tay cut through the dense forest to the south of Dunkelden Castle.

  Above him, through gaps in the crown of dark and lacy yew leaves, the sun grew warm and bright and speckled over the ground like the skin on the sweetest trout. He opened his eyes then yawned. His hound Atholl lay next to him, the wolfhound snoring, snout resting on his lap.

  Before Lyall could move, a bee buzzed near his nose, so he stayed perfectly still. The bee lit on his hand, which was resting on his ribs, and Lyall held his breath. Someone once warned him if he held still, a bee would never sting him, but instead it would realize he was not sweet clover and fly away.

  The bee sat as still as he did, wings down, tail up, then it dropped and stung him. He yelped and jumped up, dancing around and shaking his hand with the stinger in his skin. Atholl awoke and frowning up at him as if he were mad. He pulled the stinger out and stuck his hand in the cold river water. “Hold
still,” he muttered. “And a bee won't sting you.”

  When his hand stopped burning he pulled it from the river. Atholl sat waiting, watching him from familiar trusting brown eyes while his thick tail began to thump on the damp ground. Lyall stood, gathering his things. “Come, you worthless hound,” he said with affection, rubbing his pet’s ears before he bent and picked up a sack full of freshly caught trout and tied it to his belt. “We are late.”

  Looking up, he studied the sun moving across a wedge of blue sky, which told him they had been gone from home too long. “Mother will be worried. Come, else she will send Malcolm to prod me home with the sole of his boot and he was in a foul mood this morn. If he has to spend his time searching for me, then he will be angry and blustery and refuse to play draughts with me.

  Atholl sat at Lyall’s feet, head cocked and listening. “You know how Malcolm’s anger swells and then he’s as impossible to live with as the English.” He laughed out loud, because he was jesting, preparing his sharp words for nightly bantering with his older brother. The truth was he worshipped Malcolm, who would be ten and three and was not all that much older. In less than a fortnight, Malcolm was due to leave Perthshire and Dunkelden for Angus, to Castle Rossie, where he would be fostered. The agreement had been drawn and sealed before their father was killed—the reason why home was uncomfortable and why their mother hovered around them all too closely of late and sometimes looked as if she was in a place far, far away from the rest of them. Without their father, Mother was not the same woman and added to her fretfulness was the fact that too soon her first born son would be leaving.

  After their father’s body was brought home and buried in the small lime washed chapel at Dunkelden, Malcolm wandered the whole castle with his hands in fists because he did not want to leave and fought with everyone who would listen and even those who did not. Still he lost his frantic bid; all said Malcolm must do what his father wanted and foster with Ramsey. His brother was repeatedly reminded of the honor and respect of following their father’s wishes. Now that Ewane Robertson, the great warrior and friend of the king, was dead, the agreement he'd struck for Malcolm was even more important.