The Highlander’s Trust_Blood of Duncliffe Series_A Medieval Scottish Romance Story

by Emilia Ferguson

  “Well,” Heathfield looked worried. “I delivered the note and she read it. Seemed pleased. She said to tell Arabella that...” he paused, a look of utter confusion on his face, “that the musician plays a fine tune. And she has done well to follow it.”

  Richard frowned. It made no sense to him, either. However, he had asked for something known only to them. “Thank you,” he said. “I'll pass the message on. She seemed well?”

  “She was well, sir,” Heathfield nodded. “I think your note gave her great comfort.”

  Whew. Richard felt his heart relax a little. Some of the burden of guilt shifted. Now all he had to do was deal with the problem of Rowell. The rest – the fact that she was now on the wrong side of the conflict from her family, that she was isolated from her language and with someone whose ways were different – that seemed more surmountable than he did.

  “Well,” Richard sighed. “I will pass the message on. You did well, Heathfield. My thanks.”

  “Not at all, sir,” Heathfield nodded. “Place isn't exactly impenetrable.”

  Richard frowned, feeling irritated by the man's competence. “Be that as it may,” he said stiffly. “You have my thanks. Now, I need to go and find the major and find out what his plans are for the not-exactly-impenetrable fort.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The fellow seemed not to notice Richard's sarcasm and, being too worried to spend much more time and effort on Heathfield and his manners, Richard ignored it and hurried off.

  At the imposing building that had housed some sort of official business before the town's occupation, Richard paused, looked up at the stone carvings above the door and gathered his thoughts. He hated having to talk to Major Rowell at the best of times, but with Arabella to keep safe, his dislike was even worse.

  “Hello?” A sentry popped his head round the door, making Richard jump. He had an unpleasant sneer and Richard breathed in to calm himself. Rowell seemed to collect the least-pleasant members of the army – possibly because they were the only ones desperate enough for advancement to bear the fellow's company.

  “I'm here to speak with Major Rowell,” Richard said firmly. “If you could tell him? I'm Lieutenant Osborne.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Richard waited, feeling uncommonly nervous. He heard the fellow's footsteps retreat across the hall, then return.

  “Major's busy, sir.”

  “He is?” Richard frowned. He was sure he could hear Rowell, somewhere just out of earshot – the fellow had a characteristic drawl. He strained his ears, and then shrugged mildly. “You know when he'll be able to see me?”

  “Said he's not to be disturbed, sir,” the man said. Richard frowned. He could definitely hear Rowell, and he was sure he wasn't doing anything official, or why would he be talking so much? He shrugged again.

  “I'll return in an hour and see if he's concluded his work.”

  The man gave him a mild stare. “As you wish, sir.”

  Richard put his hat back on again and headed out. In the street, he didn't leave immediately, but headed round the corner. He had a feeling that there was something untoward going on. He could definitely hear Rowell. He followed the sound and headed round the corner, toward the small garden round the side of the building. There, he stopped.

  “So,” the voice was saying. “If you reckon that's a fair prospect, we are in agreement. Yes?”

  Richard heard the silence replying to that statement, and felt curious. The same odd sense of dread was gripping him and he found he had to know what was going on. A gap in the wall was just wide enough to admit his door key, and he scraped it round, making the hole wider. Then he put his eye to the gap.

  “So if you agree, you only need to say.”

  He stared. His blood froze. Rowell was leaning on the wall opposite, where the house met the small, fragrant garden. He had his arm resting casually and he looked completely at ease, face relaxed. The person he was talking to was shorter than him, half-obscured by a fragrant bush. Somehow, the posture of the person seemed familiar to Richard and he strained to see around the obstacle, feeling his heart ache with dread.

  He stared as they stepped round the hedge. No.

  The person Rowell was talking to so softly, so thoughtfully, was Arabella.

  Arabella looked at Rowell, and revulsion mixed with terror, mixed with rage inside her. Most overwhelming was the terror. It was that which held her frozen to the spot, unable to think, to move, and unable, above all, to run.

  If you want your family to live, you have to do what I say.

  That was the real message under the words of his crooning, murmuring voice.

  I have the means to ruin everyone you love, to see Francine and Douglas hounded in the streets, to see your father sent to prison, maybe executed. I can destroy your world. You just need to do what I say and none of that will happen.

  How could you refuse?

  Arabella licked her dry lips. What could she do?

  “I accept.”

  She saw his brown eyes light from within.

  “Good,” he purred. “Then we are in accord. I will free the prisoners this very night. You, of course, must hold with the...other agreement.”

  Arabella felt the knot in her stomach twist and she wanted to vomit. She thought she might and looked around the high-walled garden for a means of escape. There was none.

  She tried to find words but there was nothing to say. She looked into his eyes and saw no lust there, no triumph, even; only a kind of flat, consuming grayness that terrified her.

  “I...” she said, and then her throat closed on the horror and she could say no more. She turned and walked toward the gate and this time he didn't stop her.

  When she was out in the street, she leaned against the wall, drawing her shawl about her. Her legs felt too weak to move. She was tired, too...so tired. She leaned back and looked down the street into the town and it seemed as if it was appearing through a haze. Nothing made sense anymore.

  She stayed where she was, leaning on the wall, unable to find the volition to move or do anything. It was getting late – it must be almost six of the clock now – and she should be at home. Richard will be there and you promised you'd be there when he came back. It didn't help – she still didn't want to move.

  If I could stay here, just right here in the street, nothing would ever happen. I could forget about the prisoners, about my family, about Richard. I wouldn't have to do anything, say anything, be anything. I could just stand here.

  She sighed. It was foolish and she knew it, but what was she supposed to think? She was terrified. She had just been walking through the town, looking for the storehouse to help Bromley by fetching more beans for dinner, when Rowell walked out and blocked her path.

  Rowell. Just hearing his name made her feel ill. With his superior smile and his hard eyes, the insinuating way he spoke...he was repellent to her. He made her feel like she was nothing, a piece of furniture to be traded at the market. It made something inside her die.

  How could I let him come near me? If even his presence and his words are so awful, how could I even consider letting him close to me?

  She closed her eyes. What was between her and Richard was so beautiful, a thing of joy shared. However, with this man, the same act would be violent and cruel, unwanted and unfeeling. It was nothing she could even imagine.

  If I don't, my family could die.

  She closed her eyes, feeling a tear roll down her cheek. She had to. There was no other way.

  Richard, Heaven bless him, would not understand. As it was, she regretted bringing trouble to his life – why should she bring more? Even if he was simply outraged, he would be able to do nothing to help. What if he confronted Rowell? What would happen then? In his awful agreement was included that she tell no one.

  I should go back to the cottage, even so. Yet how could she? If she went home, she would see Richard. If she saw Richard, there was no way she would be able to carry out what was required of her.
/>
  As she watched the street, an idea came to her. She saw a horse, a tall, white one, being led by some soldiers. The horse snorted and dug its heels in, refusing to go the way they led it. Even when one raised his hand to strike it, the horse insisted on going the other way. It raised its head and looked at her, and she nodded.

  I don't have to do either: Obey Rowell or tell Richard. I can do something else.

  She could escape.

  Her heart thumping, knowing that it was now or never, she walked briskly down the street. Heading to the stables.

  A RUSH FOR FREEDOM

  The stables were silent. Inside, Arabella could hear the neigh of horses. There was, closer, the sound of men, walking over the rough stone flagging of the yard. Arabella leaned against the wall and drew in a steadying breath.

  “Geoffrey! You almost done, eh?”

  “Another ten minutes. Those blighters from the gate have to take our shift.”

  “Aye. They're taking a long while coming, eh?”

  Footsteps. Arabella breathed slow and even. She heard the church clock and jumped. It was six peals, then another for half an hour. She had to go, now! Rowell had told her to go to his lodgings at eight. This was her chance. When the guard changed. However, would they change now? She forced herself to calm.

  “Eh! Hal? You heard the shouting?”

  “At the gate?” The voice she'd identified as Hal asked in reply.

  “Aye. Seems like our friends are detained there,” the new voice said. “Got a fight breaking out, so they have. Probably them blighters from the public house. Sots, the lot of them.”

  “Aye.”

  Arabella felt her heart clench. It was getting close to seven! Now the sentries were held up? What could she do?

  Think, Arabella.

  She saw a stone and flung it. Tap. It hit the wall by the gate, about ten paces away. She heard the sentries take note.

  “Geoffrey? You hear that?”

  “Aye, Hal.”

  “What was it?”

  A shrug. “Beats me. Horses, probably. They've been restless all day. Probably the weather.”

  “Aye.”

  Another stone. Click. Click.

  “Blimey! What is that?”

  “Calm down, Hal. It's the horses, I tell you. Restless chaps.”

  “Not so sure. Sounded like it came from that gate yonder.”

  “Well, let's check.”

  Another stone and another. Click, click. Thump.

  Then, the sound she'd been waiting for – the crunch of men's boots on stone as they walked the ten paces to go to the gate. No time to wait. She ran.

  Round the corner, through the door. Into the stables. Search the rows. Her mind fed her instructions piecemeal and she followed them, no time to think about the logic, or not, of the plans.

  Saddles. I need a horse that's saddled. There! In the last row of stalls, on the left. The chestnut.

  Arabella walked to him as if her body was on strings, pulled by the puppeteer, her mind. She opened the gate and walked to the horse.

  Hush. He's scared of you. Yes, he looks fierce, but wouldn't you be, if someone walked into your stall? He'll like you. Horses like you.

  “Eh, lad,” she said to him softly. “You feeling hot in here? How could they leave you with your tack on?” She spoke gently and the horse stopped stamping and shying and stood and let her touch him. She heard footsteps in the doorway. The guards were coming back. Only a matter of seconds now before they noticed the gate to the horse's stable was open.

  Careful to stay calm, Arabella walked round the side of the horse, and reached up for the reins. He tossed his head and for one heart-stopping moment she thought he might bite, or shy again, but he stood still. She slipped her foot into the stirrup.

  “Hey, look there! Gate's open.”

  “I didn't leave it.”

  “Must have been the stable boy. Come on, better shut it, eh...why the blighter couldn't just remember is a mystery...”

  She heard footsteps, heavy and crunching stone on stone. She threw her leg over, grateful that once or twice, long ago when she was a little girl, Douglas had taught her and Francine to ride astride.

  I'm on!

  She gripped with her knees and then they were shooting away, heading down the path.

  “What? Hey! Halt! Stop, I say! Or I'll shoot!”

  The voice that was Geoffrey shouted after her, and Arabella didn't stop to think – she gripped with her knees, held the reins and half-closed her eyes as the horse shot forward, racing for the gate.

  They were in the town, on the cobbles, her horse running like a condemned man let loose from jail. They were heading straight down the main arterial road, heading for the gate.

  “Yes!”

  Arabella screamed it, and her horse neighed and ran, heading for the gate. Soldiers on the side of the road, in the market or coming from the guardhouse stared. None of them made any move to stop her, however – the sight of a woman riding astride at full gallop down the street seemed to stop them in their tracks.

  Then she heard a voice she knew. “Stop! Thief!”

  It was Rowell.

  She screamed and a shot rang out over her head. That seemed to give others the reminder they needed that they were meant to shoot horse thieves, and bullets whizzed past. Arabella screamed and sent her horse hurtling toward the gate.

  They ran through. Nobody reached out to stop them.

  Then they were out on the road, finally free.

  “Yes!” she breathed into her horse's ear. “Thank you!”

  The horse seemed to hear her whispers. He redoubled his efforts and they burst ahead toward the woods. She had the impression that the horse didn't like her very much – he certainly fought her directives to turn as they reached the forest – but nevertheless he seemed as pleased as she to be away. He was running for the pleasure of it, she thought, for his own fierce need to be free.

  They stopped running when they had ridden through the trees about five minutes. By then, they were quite far in. Arabella leaned forward, shaking and exhausted. They did it. They were out.

  Her horse stood still, sweat pouring from his body, head down. She felt bad for having sent him on so fast a run, but what could she do? They could both have been shot. It was, in fact, a miracle they weren't.

  She was too tired to do anything for what felt like a long while. Around them, the woods had grown dark with dusk. She looked around.

  “Let's go on,” she whispered.

  The woods were darkening and there was a chance they would get lost. They had to stick to the path, and it would be best to reach some place of shelter while it was still possible to see.

  They went on, heading into the dark trees.

  Richard walked back from the offices, unable to think or feel. He didn't even know where he was – the town passed by, unseen. He reached his home by sheer habit, his body carrying him there without any need for his mind to guide him.

  In his head was a whirling blankness, and the same picture, over and over. Rowell, touching Arabella. Talking to her. Making who knew what agreements.

  Arabella, not walking away. Listening to him. Letting him touch her.

  “Blast them,” he whispered.

  He felt an incandescent rage against Rowell, but the hurt that Arabella dealt him was worse. Why would she even have gone near Rowell?

  Rage and hurt mixed inside him, combining with a worse feeling directed at himself. Impatience. He had been a fool. He had believed her when she said she loved him, when she said that she trusted him.

  What agreement was she making with Rowell?

  It made no sense, none of it.

  He marched up the steps and into the house.

  “Hello?” he called out.

  Nothing. The house gave back an echo of emptiness. Richard looked around and felt oddly frustrated. He had hoped Arabella would be here, that he could talk to her, ask her what was happening. However, she wasn't here.

  �
�Blast,” he said again.

  He marched up the hallway and to the dining room, sticking his head in round the door. It was empty, though from somewhere there issued a smell of food, cooking. His stomach made a noise reminding him of hunger.

  “Bromley?” he called.

  When even Bromley wasn't there, he felt a sour rage build inside him. He kicked the mantel and then winced as his foot ached. Swearing, he limped toward the chair.

  “Sir?”

  “Blast, Bromley,” he swore. “Where is everyone?”

  Whether or not Arabella was planning adultery, he still would have liked to see her! Nothing was worse than this isolation, this emptiness where, just recently, his house had been a place of such complete happiness.

  “I was in the cellar, sir,” Bromley said. “Chasing out the rats.”

  “Where's the mistress?” he asked, dragging off his boot grimly, feeling his foot start to swell. Blast it; he'd likely broken that, too!

  “She...” Bromley frowned. “She went out, sir.”

  “Aye,” Richard said acridly. “I know.”

  “Sir?”

  “Nothing, Bromley. Just get dinner, will you? And don't wait for the mistress,” he added, seeing Bromley's affronted expression.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Swearing under his breath about Bromley and his divided loyalty, Richard swung back to the table. His foot ached like perdition and he was sure he'd cracked a toe.

  Serves you right for being such a stupid fool.

  He sighed. His life seemed to be all about serving him right just lately. All he could hope was that Arabella returned. If he confronted her about it, she would tell him the truth. He'd rather know the truth, whatever it was. Better to know.

  “I made a soup of greens sir,” the man said, bringing in the first course hesitantly. “I was meant to make a stew with beans for the second, but the mistress went out to fetch them and she didn't bring any back, so...” he shrugged. “I made what I could with the fish from yesterday.”

  “Fine,” Richard snarled. Bromley, sensing the anger in his tone, promptly left.