by Amanda Scott
Her thoughts were disordered and remained so until Doreen came to help her prepare for bed, because no sooner would she tell herself that all anyone cared about was her fortune than an image of Kintail would present itself, smiling, eyes twinkling, and she would remember the warmth she felt when he smiled at her. Then she would imagine him grim and unsmiling, and wonder what had possessed her to forget, even for a minute, how implacable he could be.
Nor did her thoughts order themselves after Doreen had gone away and she lay sleepless in bed. She tried to imagine how she could prevent Kintail from forcing her to marry him if he resorted to force, but she found herself, instead, imagining what marriage to such a man might be like. Those thoughts stirred feelings in places she had not previously suspected she could have feelings.
When she tried to remind herself that she did not like him, her imagination presented a picture of him on horseback beside her, gently asking what she wanted.
Remembering then that he had allowed her to help keep the castle accounts, she tried to imagine herself as his partner, helping him rule Kintail and Dunsithe. Unfortunately, the mental image of him that leaped to mind then was that of a large, determined, domineering man, unwilling to accept any opinion of hers without question, let alone to accept her as a consort ruling his domain. Trying to imagine him otherwise staggered her imagination.
Maggie Malloch had been no help. Her suggestion, that Molly simply make him heed her wishes, seemed absurd when she could not even make him understand how much she valued the freedom she had had at Dunakin. At Eilean Donan, she had practically none, and although he had not tried to turn her into a drudge as she had first feared, she still had little opportunity to do the things she most enjoyed.
She missed her solitary rides on Skye, where people knew her, and wherever she went, willing hands would help if she ran into trouble, and where trouble rarely involved more than a broken rein or a strained fetlock.
She had been at Eilean Donan only a short time, but already she knew that if things did not change, the confinement would drive her mad, married to him or not. Therefore, she had to make him see that she would not submit to thoughtless, arbitrary orders. His commands had to be reasonable, and he should discuss them with her, not simply issue them and expect her to obey.
She realized, however, that to make him understand all that, she first had to show him that he could not make her obey if she did not choose to do so.
Fine, she thought, an excellent start, but how could she show him any such thing? He was rarely around during the day to see what she did or did not do, and she would not let Mauri or Doreen suffer for her defiance. Moreover, as long as she remained tamely at Eilean Donan, she could do nothing but what he allowed.
Kintail must see that she was pitting herself against him alone. He must see that if he did marry her, he would be marrying a woman with thoughts, opinions, and capabilities of her own. The people at Dunakin had understood that. Surely Kintail would come to do so, too. He might be block-headed, but he was not stupid.
So, she would have to leave Eilean Donan, at least for a short time, and preferably before Donald and his armies arrived, for she had no wish to run into them. She was not a fool, so she would attempt no more than what she had done at Dunakin. She would simply ride out by herself and…
That would not do. She tried to tell herself it would not do because Kintail’s people were unlikely to let her row across the channel and take her horse from the stable without his permission, but she knew the truth was that she knew he would make good his threat if she did, and forbid her to ride for three months. That he might do more than that, she did not want to consider. She would not ride.
The first thing, then, was to get off the islet. She could row one of the small boats, perhaps even manage to sail one of the fishing cobles. The storm would not last forever, but would Kintail’s men permit her to take any boat?
Not if they saw her, she decided, but what if she arose before dawn and slipped down to the beach? Could she launch a rowboat quietly enough to get away without any watcher on the battlements seeing her?
The idea appealed to her. Most likely, they did not watch their own beach as carefully as they watched the water and the shorelines. They would be watching for attackers from the mainland or Loch Alsh. If she drifted whichever way the current flowed for a short distance before she used the oars, perhaps she could succeed.
But where would she go?
The notion stirred that she could somehow get to Dunsithe to search for her fortune, but she rejected it. Her intent was not to do something foolhardy, and a trip alone of over a hundred miles would be nothing less.
She had to do something ordinary, something that she would have done at Dunakin without any soul-searching— without thought, in fact—like hunting.
“He knows I like to hunt,” she muttered to the surrounding silence. “He and Sir Patrick hunt every day, yet he has not once asked me to join them.”
Like any other castle, Eilean Donan required constant replenishing of its food stocks, and that was something with which she could help. Smiling, sure now of her plan, she turned over and went to sleep.
To Nell’s vast relief, after nearly a sennight had passed, James not only agreed at last to let her carry a message to Kintail and depart straightaway but also gave her a warrant commanding hospitality along the way. Most households would give shelter to any passing traveler, but she knew that a woman with a small escort would receive more agreeable treatment at the King’s command than on her own.
The distance being more than a hundred and fifty miles, much of it through the roadless Highlands, the journey would take three days at least, and that only because Nell and her women were Border-bred and thus excellent horse-women.
James had suggested that she might prefer to travel to Dunbarton and take ship from there but agreed that, with Donald the Grim gathering a fleet, she might run into trouble before she reached Eilean Donan. That a royal navy was being hastily assembled to deal with Donald’s fleet would not make her journey safer, since she could count on neither side to accept her bona fides.
Ordering her woman to pack their things, she sent word to her men-at-arms that she would depart within the hour and would require a guide who knew the Highlands and could get them to Kintail safely and by the fastest route. She was taking a last look around her bedchamber to be sure she left nothing behind when a sharp rap sounded at the door.
Her woman opened it to find a girl in a blue gown and white cap. The latter concealed her hair, making her large, dark-fringed gray eyes seem enormous.
“Beg pardon, m’lady,” the girl said, “but my mistress, hearing that you mean to leave the castle, asked me to bring you this message.” When Nell had taken it, he girl bobbed a curtsy and hurried away.
“How odd,” Nell murmured, breaking the wax seal. She understood little more when she read the following:
Dear Madam:
Your haste precludes a more formal farewell, but I did think you would appreciate a glance at the bearer to reassure yourself that she is well cared for. With Respect, Discretion, and in Haste, I am, as ever, your affectionate —Lady F
“Be aught amiss, my lady?”
“Nothing, Jane. I believe this message comes from an extremely encroaching woman, who insists on believing that I retain interest in my brother’s affairs. I do not, of course, but I could not tell her so if I wanted to, for I do not recall the wretched creature’s name and her absurd discretion has prompted her to sign only her initial.”
“Shall I attempt to identify her, my lady? Perhaps one of—”
“No, Jane, I want to put as much distance between ourselves and Stirling as we can before dark. Art ready?”
Being reassured on this point, Nell led the way to the courtyard, where she found her escort and their guide. The latter caused her some annoyance, for it seemed that James had also recognized her need for such a person and had provided a wiry little man of his own. The guide would be useful
as far as Kintail, but to fulfill her mission, she would have to get rid of him soon after their arrival.
“We’ll make for Loch Lomond first, my lady,” he said politely, “and thence up the Great Glen to Glen Garry and west to Kintail. Portions o’ the route be rugged, but your people assure me that you and your woman be intrepid horsewomen. I pray that be so.”
“It is,” Nell said curtly. “Let us depart at once.”
He assisted her to her saddle, and within minutes, the little group was crossing the timber bridge, leaving Stirling Castle behind them.
Chapter 12
Molly’s preparations took much of the day, for not only did she require food but clothing, too. Too many people would recognize her in her customary garb, thanks to Kintail’s introductions, and those who did not would want to know why a well-dressed young woman was strolling alone in the woods or practicing her bowmanship in some clearing or other.
Even an ordinarily dressed young woman might draw unwanted attention, so masculine clothing was preferable, but she could not imagine herself daring to appear in one of the raggedy, kilted garments that so many of the common men and boys wore. Over the course of the day, however, she managed to acquire a knee-length saffron tunic and a pair of ragged braies, to which she added leg bandings and rawhide shoes. The shoes were too big, but by extending the bandings to cover her ankles and feet, she could make them fit.
Completing her wardrobe with a flat blue cap and a woolen mantle of the indigo and dark green pattern the Highlanders called tartan and that nearly every male in the area seemed to wear, she tucked everything into a wooden chest in her bedchamber, ready to wear when the opportunity arose.
It rained all day, making her fret that the bad weather might continue indefinitely. Kintail need only receive word that Donald the Grim had landed in Kintail, and he would hail the priest straight to Eilean Donan and order the feckless man to marry him to her on the spot. It was imperative that she prove to him before then that he could not act the tyrant over her.
Waking before dawn the next morning, she looked outside and saw stars twinkling in the still black sky. The rain had stopped. Dressing as hastily as she could in the unfamiliar tunic, braies, and leggings, she fastened her quiver of arrows around her waist, kilted the tunic over the belt, tucked her hair into the cap, and wrapped the tartan mantle around her. Taking up her bow, she slipped downstairs to the double-barred postern door at the base of the northwest tower.
She could manage the bars alone, and she could be reasonably sure that no guard stood just outside it. In any event, the door was the only way to leave the castle without being seen.
Not only did men-at-arms sleep in the great hall, through which she would have to pass to reach the castle entrance, but the entrance was guarded by the tall, heavily timbered portcullis and a second, interior timber gate that was nearly as solid. Both would be shut, and no one in Kintail’s service would open them for her.
Each of the bars scraped when she lifted it, being too heavy for her to manage with deftness. The door creaked, too, but although each sound stopped her breath in her throat, no one demanded to know her business.
Outside, she breathed more easily. Waves slapped hard against the shore, and the wind blew hard enough to interfere with any man’s hearing. There was no moon to shine upon her, so the dark mantle would conceal her as long as she stayed near the wall as she made her way around to the eastern shore.
Although the distance to the boats was not great, it seemed to take forever, but she reached the nearest rowboat at last, without seeing or hearing anyone.
Just then, a clank from above stopped her in her tracks. Voices drifted on the wind from the battlements, but soon they faded, and she knew that the time had come to move again if she could just make herself do so. Silently feeling her way, she laid her longbow in the boat and then slowly, carefully, eased the small craft into the water, hoping that the scraping sound of the boat over loose pebbles would not carry above the louder sounds of wind and slapping waves.
Attempting to imitate the movement Kintail had made, launching their boat two days before, she grabbed the gunwales on either side of the little craft’s bow, then pushed and leaped, swinging one leg over and in, then gasping and holding on for dear life when the other foot plunged into the icy water. The boat tilted and an oar slipped, thudding dully against its gunwale.
Although she expected to hear an alarm, none sounded, and the boat was moving, drifting toward the Dornie shore. She was still too close to the castle, and there were steep cliffs on that side of the loch and fewer places to beach. The opposite shore was heavily wooded, more welcoming. Using an oar, as silently as she could, she guided the little craft out into the tidal current. When she decided that she was far enough away that no sound she made could reach the castle, she began to row in earnest, and twenty minutes later, she beached on the opposite shore.
Dragging the boat high enough so that the rising tide would be unlikely to carry it away, and tying its painter to a tree root to make doubly sure, she took her bow and moved uphill into the trees until she came to a flat rock where she could sit and wait for dawn. She had no idea what time it was.
Resting her arms on her knees and her head on her arms, she dozed with her bow across her lap, waking to the sound of a crane’s whoop to find that the sun had risen. Beyond the tree line, in the distance across the loch, she could see Eilean Donan gleaming like bronze in the pale yellow sunlight. She could discern no unusual activity, but she realized that she should have taken Doreen into her confidence, so that the maidservant would not raise the alarm when she entered Molly’s bedchamber and found her gone.
Men searching the shoreline would soon find the rowboat and would recognize that it belonged to the castle, so she hastened to put distance between it and herself. Hiking up the steep hillside until she came to a grassy clearing, she turned to get her bearings again. The three lochs lay before her. She could even see Skye in the misty distance. She would not get lost.
Movement drew her attention to the far shore—horses and mounted men, perhaps a half dozen. Had someone raised the alarm while she dozed? No, she decided, they were too bunched up to be searching and too small a group to be raiders or—worse—a vanguard of Donald the Grim’s invaders.
Knowing that the riders could not see her, she watched until they reached the head of the loch and crossed the burn. When they turned toward her, she slipped into the shrubbery again. Keeping an eye on them would be easy. She would find a place where she could practice her bowmanship and when she was quite ready, she would return to the castle.
“ ’Tis a fine day for sport,” Patrick MacRae said cheerfully. “We must hope that Donald Grumach does not spoil it by attacking Kintail today.”
“Aye,” Fin said, but his attention was fixed on the moody young goshawk he carried on his gloved left fist. Although hooded and jessed, the bird still tended to bate at unexpected noises and had been ruffling its wings ominously for the past several minutes. Fortunately, Fin’s mount was seasoned and would not bolt if the bird began thrashing around and fighting its tethers, but it would be as well if the young she-devil behaved. It could injure itself or break a primary feather if it got too excited. Looping his reins around his wrist, he stroked the bird’s underbelly gently to calm it.
Patrick’s hawk was smaller and more even-tempered. He seemed to pay it no heed, choosing to engage in merry conversation instead, but Fin knew his careless attitude was deceptive. Patrick was as skilled with a hawk as with a longbow, sword, or gun. Both he and Fin had learned the art of hawking from the old laird’s chief falconer, for Sir Ranald Mackenzie had believed that both his son and their future constable should be as skilled at such arts as their hirelings were.
“Is Smoke giving you trouble, laird?” Tam Matheson asked. He, too, had learned from the chief falconer, for that worthy was his father. Having helped train birds for Fin and Patrick, Tam tended to blame himself for the birds’ few faults.
Patrick grinned. “Everyone is giving the laird trouble these days, Tam—his birds, his women, his—”
“Mind your tongue,” Fin said, repressing the picture of Molly that leaped to his mind’s eye. “If you recall, I’m still capable of schooling your manners.”
“Aye, master,” Patrick said with a chuckle, adding, “How do those boots of mine fit you, Tam?”
“Excellent well, as ye see,” Tam said, raising a foot to show him.
Fin said nothing, trying to keep his thoughts on the goshawk and off Molly.
Patrick shot him a measuring look, then said more soberly, “Uphill yonder is that long, heathery meadow we like. Shall we try them there? It’ll give that vixen of yours room to stretch her wings, and we’ll be able to keep a better eye on her if she takes to the trees.”
“The laird’s Smoke be belled, Patrick,” Tam said indignantly.
“Aye, Tam, but if she catches sight of a grouse and the grouse dives into the trees, we’ll want to see which way they go, in the event that Smoke loses him and keeps going. Bell or no bell, she’ll be hard to follow through woodland, and she is still young.”
Tam shrugged, and Fin smiled, knowing that Tam was thinking—and rightly—that he’d be the one to hunt for the goshawk if they lost sight of it. Patrick wasn’t one to waste his time with tedious tasks if he could avoid them, and the goshawk would respond to Tam’s whistle as quickly as it would to Fin’s.
When they drew rein in the meadow, Patrick shot Fin a challenging look. “I’ll wager that my Kit takes his prey at first flush and that Smoke will fail.”
“How much?”
“Ten merks.”
“Done,” Fin said, pulling the glove off his free hand with his teeth and tucking it into his jerkin so that he could loosen the braces that closed the goshawk’s red-plumed Dutch hood. “Smoke can outfly anything. Easy, lass,” he murmured to the tense, quivering bird. Starting at every sound and too-quick movement, the goshawk pulsated like a plucked bowstring. He could feel the low vibrations humming through his gloved fist and fingers.